


A Song for Dragons

by Doublehex



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, R plus L equals J, more OCs than you can shake a stick at - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2018-09-19 08:29:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 413,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9430127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doublehex/pseuds/Doublehex
Summary: The world is becoming out of joint. The cruel winds of winter are coming, but they come at a slow turn. It is the summer of plenty, of long laughs and even longer lives. But that summer is coming to a close.The Lord of Winterfell wants a better life for his bastard - a better life than even what his son would want. So Jon Snow travels across the Narrow Sea, where tales of an empire of horselords await him. A thousand roads he could travel, but he finds himself walking only the one, the one that brings him in conflict with a vicious dragon prince who will sell his sister for the Iron Throne.And so, begins a Song for Dragons.





	1. A Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> To George R. R. Martin, for without him, none of us would be here. 
> 
> Funny story about this fic. It originally started as a way for me to burn the midnight oil. I had never meant it to be quite so large, but as any writer will say, the story grew with the telling. I will say, as a preface, that this AU diverges quite a bit from canon. Jorah Mormont is changed, the Dothraki changed, the motivations of some characters have been modified. But this is an AU - I have the right to do that. But if you are like any of my betas, you will notice that in the coming weeks that the timeline has been changed rather significantly. The timespan of the event of A Game of Thrones takes much longer than they do in canon. To which I say:
> 
> Roll with it. 
> 
> As always, with every chapter you can choose to read it on AOO3 or do so on my own personal website, http://www.chaosinferred.com/creative/asoiaf/dragons/, which has the benefit of an arranged soundtrack you can listen to as you read. Sometimes the music is what I listened to as I wrote the scenes, other times they were chosen after the fact.
> 
> Lastly, word of thanks for my betas. SerpentGuy, the writer of Dragons of Ice and Fire, for being a fountain of criticism and praise, who pushed me in really hard directions to make each chapter the best they can be. Plenty of scenes, and a couple of chapters, were killed with fire at his suggestion. Read his fic while you wait for my next chapters - they come with my highest recommendations. Jxlight @ Tumblr, for giving me a non-book reader's perspective, and Oadara @ Tumblr for not just the wealth of ASOIAF essays she provides, but for the words of encouragement she has provided to me in the recent weeks. 
> 
> You will receive a new chapter every Monday. I have eleven right now, with twelve being worked on as we speak. I think the approach of giving myself a 3 months head start has done nothing but benefited the story. Plenty of revised and expanded scenes would not have existed without the benefit of insight.

**A SONG FOR DRAGONS**

**I**

**A BEGINNING**

**THE CYCLES OF THE SONG**

And it would come to pass, just as in the age of ruin, that the weight of sin would weigh on the empires of man. The green would fade, and the crop of corn would wither. But in the wake of such evil would men cry out, and women would weep in desperation, O Lords of the Heavens, O Masters of the World, let the Dragon be born again; let the Dragon be born of the salt, let the Dragon be born to the flame. Let the Dragon melt away the coldness of the world, let the Dragon lift the darkness from men's hearts. Let the Dragon summon forth the banners, woven from their hunger insatiable. Let the Prince of the Dark call forth his courage; let the Queen of Light find her purpose. Let the mountains quiver in their coming; let them soar above all else in the world. May the Dragon ride the waves of glory to the End of Creation.

 _From Asyrio Topamtes, Introduction to the Second Age of Heroes of Westeros_  

**SON OF WHITE HARBOR**

 

For any son of the Mander, nothing tasted of home like the salt-licked sea. He was across the Narrow Sea, he was standing on the Pentoshi harbors, but Wendel Manderly was only half-certain he wasn’t home. It felt same in all the ways that White Harbor would. The heavy breeze pulling at his hair, the whipping of the masts, the yells of sailors and shiphands as they load casks and crates. It was all a thousand different sounds that were music to his ears.

Wendel turned and saw Jon Snow taking his first steps off of the ramp. The boy had the Stark looks; the dark hair, the solemn face, the eyes that were gray steel in one light and silver in another. At the boy’s hand was a sword, a gift from Lord Eddard. Fine northern steel, with a thick and durable pummel. He saw the blade itself only once, and he saw the markings of a snarling wolf near the hilt. Jon Snow kept it close in hand.

If only the boy wasn’t bastard born, he would have had the prospects of the entire North. Wendel had no doubt that his nieces would have had an eye or two on him. If his name was Stark instead of Snow, Lord Eddard would need to wrestle with marriage proposals up to his shoulders. And all of his sons, it was only Jon that took on the Stark looks. Every lord in the North would want their next generation to have the gray eyes of the sons of Winterfell.

And to sweeten all that, Jon had a face to be proud of. It was a strong, sweet face that no doubt a serving girl dreamed of kissing. And maybe even some of those Southron flowers, now that Wendel thought on it. _After three years, I’ll eat a clam’s shell if you don’t have a bastard of your own._

“Jon Snow, how goes your first step onto Pentos?”

Jon Snow looked around, eying his surroundings. His eyes were drawn to a man robed in green and gold astride a zorse. “Can I say unreal, Lord Wendel?”

Wendel smiled and laughed. “That you can. I can remember the first time I sailed to Essos. I thought the same as you. That this place is unreal, a place of fancy.”

“Almost as if the Night’s King will step from the shadows any moment.”

“By the true gods, let’s pray that won’t happen.” Wendel pulled at his long whiskers. “Where’s that wolf of yours?”

Jon turned towards the ship. “Ghost, to me,” he called, and from behind the railings of the _Ice Wife_ Wendel could see the white furs of the direwolf. When Wendel Manderly arrived in Winterfell for the King’s feast, the direwolf pups were the size of a small dog. A month later, and Ghost looked like he could eat a runt. Lady Catelyn was wed to the north for near on twenty years, but Wendel doubted that prepared her for the direwolves. _I don’t think any but the Starks are prepared for the direwolves._

Ghost padded to Jon, ever close to his master. Wendel could not count a moment when the two were far apart. Jon’s eyes were gazing everywhere, and Wendel could hardly blame him. Wendel had crossed the Narrow Sea half a dozen times. With White Harbor being the largest port in the North, it fell on the Manderlys to make sure trade flowed through the Stark domain. Sometimes that required a son of White Harbor to do business with one Essosi cheesemonger or another.

Wendel had seen Qartheen milk men, Dothraki raiders, dealt with the Iron Bank, witnessed YiTish in their tailed hats, and even met a shadowbinder in Qohor. It was all almost dull to Wendel by now, but Jon was like a maid here. Eddard Stark’s instructions were clear as glass: “Escort my son across the Narrow Sea. Find him a noble merchant to be a guard for, or failing that, a mercenary company of repute for him to contract his sword to.” Once Wendel had fulfilled his lord’s commands, then he could return home.

It was a tall order, but Wendel knew he was up to the task. White Harbor was not so remote as the Southron flowersuckers would believe, and the name Manderly and Stark was not so reclusive that people would look at him with bewildered eyes when he made introductions. Even if both were true, Jon had been trained by a Master-at-Arms since a boy could be instructed. He was not some lice ridden fool with a sharp blade. He was a more than capable swordsman, with the knowledge and form to back it up.

He knew the name of some of the magisters that ruled Pentos. Arelos Menartis, Julien Solarno, Alergio Turaktos. But never Illyrio Mopatis – that one had been scorned by the magisters and the Prince of Pentos ever since some scandal with his second wife. Wendel was half certain he took a bed slave as a wife, or something along those lines. Jon Snow needed a good repute, and it would not do to have him protect one who was cut off from the other rulers of the city. Even if his “crime” was something Wendel could hardly see fault in.

And even beyond all that, there was still the possibility that Jon Snow wouldn’t find favor with any of the magisters. Unlikely, for Wendel had pride in how he could sell any deal, but it was still there. If so, he would need to set Jon up with one of the mercenary companies. That didn’t sit well with Wendel. Mercenaries flew with the wind, going to which purse jingled the loudest. Jon could be fighting for a noble cause one moon, and then be killing for the prosperity of a vile man the next.

The Golden Company was ever in the back of his mind. The Blackfyre were wiped out, despite how much Aegor Bittersteel swore to put one on the Iron Throne. The Company had nothing more to fight for, no reason to cross the Narrow Sea. Well, more than a share of noble bastards had made up their ranks, so perhaps that was cause. But Wendel just could not see it. The Golden Company of today just was not the same legion that threatened Westeros a near half dozen times.

It was an option. A point of consideration. A bitter salve to swallow. The Company would not invade any time soon, or ever, but the North has a long memory. Signing Jon up with them would not sit right with anyone – least of all the bastard himself. Sending Jon into the ranks of sellswords was a last option, and the Golden Company was the very last of those options.

No, no, not the Golden Company, not today, not ever. Wendel could not see the fruits being so barren that the vineyard of Bittersteel was the only option. But even then, the idea that Lord Eddard had to send his bastard across the Narrow Sea was difficult to grasp. _Had any other lord sent his baseborn son to Essos?_ Wendel could not find an answer.

What Eddard Stark did with his family was his business, Wendel knew that as well as any other man. Father’s ravings over him never taking a wife were the stuff of legends in White Harbor. But Jon Snow had options – he wasn’t just any lord’s bastard, he was the bastard son of the Lord of Winterfell. Wendel knew for a fact that Father had offered a squireship to Jon on more than a few occasions, and surely the other honored lords of the North gave the same offer. There weren’t even any betrothals set for his oldest, Robb – and he will be Lord of Winterfell when Lord Eddard passes from the world.

It was always said that Eddard Stark was a cautious man. Very considerate of his choices, it was said. Still, how little Eddard seemed to be laying the groundwork for his house was queer. But what did Wendel know? He was just the second, wife-less son of the Lord of White Harbor. No doubt the King’s feast had brought more than a fair share of offers that Lord Stark was mulling over.

Offers that he would be mulling over in King’s Landing. Robert Baratheon had made Lord Eddard his Hand, and if Wendel could be honest to himself, it was a long time coming. Eddard Stark was half the reason it was Robert Baratheon was on the Iron Throne in the first place, and not that raper and traitor Rhaegar Targaryen. The wolves could not howl loud or fiercely enough for the murder of Lyanna Stark.

But that was all in the past. The bones were buried, the ash was swept away by the wind, and Wendel was entrusted to guide Jon Snow into Essos. He was nothing if not a dutiful son, and a lord that remembered his duites.

There was no retinue in their stead, all to Father’s aggravation and to Wendel’s relief. It was Wyman that preferred to be surrounded by his servants and attendants. For all of Wendel’s faults, he could pamper himself just fine. And he doubted Jon Snow would have wanted to be attended to every minute he was in Essos. “Are your legs as cramped as mine, Jon?”

He nodded. “Two weeks on a ship.”

“Two weeks on a cog, as exciting as that sounds. What did my Lord Father stuff into your mouth, Jon Snow?”

There was a lustful look in Jon’s eyes. “Crabs and lobsters, clams and salmon. I never knew the sea could be so delicious, Lord Wendel.”

He smiled. “A barrel of butter will make anything delicious, Jon. If my memory serves me right, there is a little hole we can rest for the night. And on the morrow, try to figure what we do next.

For once, his memory proved him true. The Golden Zorse was right where he remembered it, a small slice of a building cramped between two larger ones. The inn had many qualities, and by far the greatest was its discretion. The serving wenches would not pester the fat man in his fine velvets what his business in Pentos was. However, Wendel had to be honest in that their cod had far too much salt for his pallet. Salt was such a delicate thing, after all. Too much and the meal is ruined, but just a pinch and you might as well be sprinkling air. Much like conversations, a delicate hand was needed.

“You’ve been quiet,” he observed as he wiped the salty grease of the honeyed chicken from his whiskers. “You speak only unless spoken to, Jon Snow. I knew your Uncle Brandon.” Jon Snow picked his eyes up from the spiced lamb. “That man was the first in everything. The first to speak, the first to laugh, and the first to bed what wench he saw, if I remember true.”

“I don’t know much of my uncle,” Jon admitted. “Or my grandfather. I know what happened to them.” _The entire realm remembers what happened to them._ “But Father would never speak of them.”

“In just a few years, your Lord Father lose nearly his entire family. I would be quiet too, if I were him. Or you, if I had to leave my brother behind while he was dying.”

There was a sharp look in Jon’s eyes then. “Bran isn’t dying.”

“No. No he’s not. You Starks are hard to kill. When you return home, your brother Bran will be waiting for you. Mark my words, Snow.”

“Consider them marked,” Jon said. Then he cut into his lamb.

The next morning had a faint chill to it. Even in the summer, when the snows were light, the seas drew in a cold frost in the air that would rush through your bones. There was something about the sea that gave no damns about the summer heat. _Perhaps that’s how us Manderlys proved so resilient over the years. The sea made us stubborn as hell._

“Of all the Free Cities, why Pentos?” Jon ripped through the apple, and the juices flowed down his lips. “You said it a hundred times, Ser. Pentos is the most unremarkable of the Free Cities.”

“No doubt because Pentos is the closest city to White Harbor.” Of all the Free Cities, Pentos was the one that enjoyed the majority of Westerosi patronage for that very reason. It was the gate into the east for many of the merchants and nobles of Westeros. “And it is the richest. Well, behind Braavos and Volantis, but it is not far off. There are countless magisters who could use a sword of good repute. We just need to find a willing purse.”

“And just how willing will the purses be?” Jon wiped at his lips.

Wendel rubbed at his hands. His pudgy fingers were feeling stiff in the morning cold. “Willing enough. You are a noble’s son. That comes with the expectation of a capable sword. You may need to best a guard or two in mock combat, but that won’t be too hard I’m certain. Nothing compares to Northern steel.”

“Lord Wendel,” Jon spoke in a serious tone, “I can take this from here. You have already guided me to Pentos. You do not need to do this on my behalf.”

“Nonsense. I swore to your Lord Father that I would see you into capable hands, and I mean to hold myself to that oath. What is a man not for his word?”

“He is nothing at all. It was just, I have been gone for only a few weeks and I can only imagine how much you long for home.”

“And I’m sure you do as well. It is a rare thing, to see a bastard be so beloved by his kin.”

A rare smile spread to the bastard’s face. “It will be a long three years, Lord Wendel.”

“It need not be,” he smiled. “There are wonders to be seen in Essos. I have never crossed past the hills of Norvos. You could tell me of the golden woods of Qohor. Perhaps you will even return with a wife to keep you warm in the winter?”

Wendel had meant it as a well meaning jest, but a serious look had taken hold in Jon’s eyes. “No woman would ever wed a bastard.”

“Essos is not Westeros. I remember the command that Lord Eddard gave you. He wanted you to find happiness, Jon Snow. A woman could surely be a part of that. Surely he would have a place for you upon your return.”

Jon shook his head. “Three years across the sea to find a place for me? There is a place in Westeros where even a bastard would be welcomed. An honored institution.”

“The Wall,” Wendel realized. “You are a man of twenty, Jon Snow. Trust me when I say your father had the right of it. You do not realize what you would be throwing away with a vow taken so young.” Every boy in the North knew of the Night’s Watch. The sworn brothers of the black that kept the realm safe from Wildling invaders. But the Night’s Watch of today was a distant thing from the order that was visited by Queen Alysanne atop Silverwing. Wendel had amused the notion of joining the order. Briefly. Father made sure to rip that prospect from his mind forever.

“My Uncle – “

“Had just survived a war which took the lives of nearly his entire family. I imagine the Wall had some appeal. But you have a full life ahead of you, bastard or not.” He laid a steady hand on Jon’s shoulders. “Take advantage of it. Take the ripe fruit into your mouth and have a mouthful.”

Jon’s steps came to a stop. For a moment, the boy said nothing. “I want to believe your words, Lord Wendel.”

“Then do so.”

“But I will always be a bastard. Any son and daughter of mine will be a Snow.”

“Aye, that is true. But they will have the Stark blood flowing their veins, just as you do. Think on that, when some pretty Lyseni girl smiles at you. Mark my words Snow, Essos will find itself in hell and fire for slavery. But the fact that the rank of bastard does not exist here should not go pass your notice.”

In the distance, high above the walled estates and the Sunrise Gate, Wendel could make out the red temple to R’hllor. The pink walls of the city were lit aglow by the nightfires set by the red priests. Wendel could have considered their songs beautiful, if they didn’t do such a damnably good job to keep him awake. “One word of advice bastard, that I pray you heed.” Jon turned to him. “Beware those red priests.” He remembered the first time he had heard a sermon. _Beware the night, for it is dark and full of terrors._ The way the woman with skin like ash looked at him…well, Wendel would never forget it.

They made their way down the Street of Pedals. Wendel could hear the faint moans coming from the brothels that gave the street its name. “You will be spending quite some years in this country. Best learn of it. No better place to do so than in the Court of Baubles.” Wendel was amused to see how Jon tried to avoid the tempting looks of a woman with silver hair. No doubt she was a daughter from Lys. “It is a giant bazaar, where merchants and travelers from all over pilfer their goods and services. If we don’t hear one bit of intriguing gossip, I will swear off fish forever.”

“Ser Wendel, I cannot imagine you without a bit of lobster hanging from your beard.”

“Then it is a good thing that lobsters are not fish. Keep your wolf close, Jon. I want a keep a good pace.” With a quick command the wolf was at the boy’s side and they weaved through the shining streets. If the boy had a careful eye, he’d notice than many of the stones had a different flower carved in. Many a brothel owners used these to indicate where guests could find some more exotic and repugnant stock.

Wendel took a quick glance into the brick windows of the street. Women of pale skin, dark hair, flaming manes, blue eyes, golden eyes, they were all slaves. True, Braavos waged a dozen wars on Pentos, and by the end of it the city was forced to renounce slavery forever. But only in name. How little were these bedwarmers paid, and how much were their lodgings and meals? Slaves with collars unseen.

The Street twisted into the Court, but Wendel heard it before he saw it. The Court of Baubles may have been a yard at some point, but now there were makeshift walls of timber and shacks that has divided it. It was a whirling maze of auctions and negotiations. Wendel was almost reminded of the Deck of Seals in White Harbor, except home had the smell of the sea and fish. The only thing that Wendel could smell were spices and perfumes.

But there was more to the Court than just the stench. Jon and he walked past Tyroshis with their blue hair and golden beards, winesellers showcasing their casks of exotic arbors, sons and daughters of Lys with their hairs of silver and eyes of lilac, jewelers showcasing exotic jewels, glowing tiaras and belts of pearls to behold. Jon took in the sights, looking this way or that, catching the sight of a Norvoshi peddling his tapestries and carpets.

They heard a dozen things. The first was that the Dothraki were at war with one another. The son of a Khal Bharbo was waging war on the Dosh Khaleen of Vaes Dothrak. The Sealord of Braavos was dealing with an upstart named Tormo Fregar. The Volantanes had raised the tariffs on slaves from Mereen, and the Wise Masters had raised the taxes on all their slaves in return. A Myrman insisted that a council of the remaining Free Cities was to be joined to settle the matter.

Then they found out that the Targaryen exiles were in the city. “You are certain of this?” Wendel leaned in so close that he could smell the perfume on the Volantene. “The Targaryens are housed here? In Pentos? At this very moment?”

The man spoke in a confident tone. “Viserys and Daenerys, yes. I heard it was one of the magisters of the city that have harbored them. Can’t say for how long – perhaps a year, or less even?”

“Your Father would not have known,” Wendel said turning to Jon. “He would not risk it. If the Targaryens have the favor of a Pentoshi cheesemonger, they may demand your head.”

“If it’s true, then let’s be quick,” Jon said. “We should return to the Golden Zorse. There are other cities, surely."

Wendel placed a steady hand on his shoulders. “Calm yourself, Jon. It’s not like we lit a beacon announcing our presence. Pentos still has potential, and just because one magister has favor with the Targaryens does not mean all of them do. We should at least find out what more that we can. For all we know, the Targaryens have long since fled, and this nugget is just an expired rumor.”

He saw Jon frown at that. If there was one thing that Wendel noticed, it was that the boy never went into things head first. “And if I have a magister’s favor, then I may be able to do something.”

“Now boy, don’t be rash.”

“I’m not,” he said firmly. “But even across the Narrow Sea, I am still the son of Eddard Stark. If the Targaryens are here, I have to do what I can. Even just learning about what they intend.”

“We can decide on a course when we have something in our bellies. Come now, I smell something savory.”

As Wendel ripped through some speared sirloin, the dark pink juices rolling down his lips, the Qohorik argued that the Golden Company was bought out by Myr. “Qohor had hired them against Khal Drogo, but then the Black Priests saw only death if they went against the horselords. They sold us to the Golden Horde, and ended the contract to the Company. I hear they are marching south now. Trouble is rumbling in Myr, I hear.”

“Another quarrel in the Disputed Lands?”

“No doubt,” said the Qohorik. Wendel could not see a trace of hair on the man’s face. By all rights, Webdek should not trust a man without hair. But his appetite was too fierce a thing to ignore for long. Jon Snow took more considerable care as he nibbled on the cut.

“How are you so certain?” Jon asked.

“I have heard it a dozen times over. Once from a Lysene pleasure slave, who said she serviced a brother of Lys who served the Company. Then again from a Tyroshi that sold a decanter of wine to a Company man. My words are trustworthy. The reputation of Iargo Thoart is beyond repute.”

“Well, Jon, I suppose there are worse things than to rely on the reputation of a Qohorvik.”

“But what could the Company be doing in Myr?”

“Soldiers follow the purses that jingle the loudest.” They walked through the streets, Ghost trailing behind him. Jon took a careful look at his speared meat, then tore through a chunk of it and lazily tossed it to the wolf. Ghost ripped at it eagerly. “And Myr is always fighting over the Disputed Lands. They are the bread basket of the country, after all.”

“It’s a good thing Pentos is far off from Myr then,” Jon considered. “What if the Targaryens buy out the Golden Company?”

Wendel snorted. “I doubt it. Twenty years they had to buy them out, and that hasn’t happened yet. And the Company does not come cheap. I wonder if they came to this magister on bent knees, begging for shelter? Would be a welcome sight, and well deserved.

“No, Jon Snow, I think as far as the Targaryens are concerned, you have nothing to be worried about.”

 

**THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL**

 

The Golden Zorse was thick of the smell of mead and wine, and his ears were ringing with the cheers and murmurs. Ser Wendel was filling another glass. “It is our last day in Pentos. The crossroads of Essos. Honestly, I should not be surprised this would only be our first destination.”

Jon drank from his cup. He could feel Ghost curling at his feet. “Why is that, My Lord?”

“Simple.” He wiped his walrus beard with the back of his hand. “Pentos is a trading city. It values only what it can exchange from others. The only thing it is known for is being a slave city without any slaves.”

“Slaves in all but name,” Jon grumbled. “They don’t have collars, but the servants are chained to their masters.”

Wendel sighed. “That’s the truth of it, Jon Snow. Don’t get righteous over it. It is as you said – Essos is not Westeros. You will need to stomach it.”

 _Stomach slavery. Stomach men and women being forced to the will of another._ Jon reached across the table for the decanter and filled his cup. He drank deep.

“The last time I saw you drink like that, it was at the feast.” Jon did not forget. The one benefit he could see of being a bastard was that he could drink to his content. While his brothers and sisters had to keep up a noble farce and drink from only a single cup, Jon could be goaded on and on by the squires and stableboys and indulge in cup after cup. It took him twenty years, but Jon learned what it meant to be well and truly drunk.

He felt the presence of Uncle Benjen then, as a squire to House Broom cheered Jon to take another glass. The Great Hall of Winterfell was hazy with the smell of mead, and Jon was well and truly drunk when Benjen shook him by the shoulders. “Why, isn’t it my most favorite bastard nephew?”

“Your only bastard nephew, you mean.” Uncle Ben took the cup of summerwine from his hands and took a sip. He took his seat on the bench at Jon’s side.

“Summerwine,” Uncle had said, with more than a hint of longing in his voice. “Been too long since I could succor a drink so sweet. How many cups of this have you had?” Jon could only smile in response. “More than enough, mayhayps. Well, I remember the day when I first got well drunk. You like it now, but trust me, the morning will be less kind.”

Jon could almost see him, as he drank from the wine in the Golden Zorse. A thick mane of dark hair sprawling down his shoulders, a wide chin and an even broader smile. He was all in black, as befitted a brother of the Night’s Watch. Far more elegant wear than what he would surely wear on the Wall – rich dark velvet, high leather boots and a belt with a silver buckle.

“You’ve had a few days to look at the Queen.” Uncle Ben stuck his hand into a bowl with onions. He took a big bite into it, producing a satisfying crunch. “Does she always look so displeased?”

“Mayhaps,” Jon guessed. “I’d say that it was because Father brought the King into the crypts. She was not pleased.”

Uncle Ben had grinned with satisfaction. “Nothing slips by you, does it Jon? The things I would do to have another with eyes as sharp as yours on the Wall.”

“Then take me with you,” he had said. “Let me become a brother of the black. Robb is the better lancer, but I am the better swordsman, and Harwin always said I took to the horses like I was born in the saddle.”

“Maybe you were,” Uncle said bemused. “But I won’t test it on the Wall.”

“I have had my twentieth nameday. I am a man grown.”

“Maybe, but have you seen the world?” Uncle had looked at him with judging eyes. “Have you known life outside of Winterfell? You would be giving up everything. Maybe when you have a bastard of your own, when you know what you would be giving up. But son, you are still too young yet.”

“I will never have a bastard,” Jon had sworn with venom. “And I am not your son.”

“That’s a pity,” Uncle had said, before he rose from his seat.

This all felt wrong to him. It was his father’s demand to make a life for himself in Essos, but this wasn’t home. This wasn’t Winterfell, or Last Hearth, or the Wolfswood, or the smell of the pines in the morning air. Robb was sitting in Winterfell an ocean away, and Bran was fighting to survive. Wendel was certain that Starks were difficult to kill, but how long until Jon would know if Bran would wake?

As he looked into the cup of the brownish red wine, Jon could almost see Arya. He could see her smiles and the freckles on her cheek, her hair like a nest of crows. Jon remembered how he would ruffle her and call her names. And whenever he saw a red haired woman, he would see Sansa. Sansa would have loved it in Essos, with all of its strange beauty.

And as he drank, Jon could see Robb. “When I see you again, your arms will be covered in golden bands.” The summer snow was melting in his hair, and he laughed as he slapped at Jon’s arm.

Ser Wendel was saying something, but Jon could not hear him. All he could hear was Lady Stark, pale faced as she looked wearily over Bran, her fingers tight around his. “It should have been you,” she said. “It should always have been you.”

 _Because you were a bastard_. Those were the unsaid words, and they were the truth. His brothers and sisters were Stark, but was Jon Snow, and he always would be. The world knows that Eddard Stark had only three sons, not four.

Jon rose from the seat and dragged his feet towards the door. “Jon!” Wendel called out. “Where are you going?”

“Air,” he slurred. “Air,” he muttered. “I need some air.” He pushed the door open, and he felt the damp summer wind hit him. He could almost feel the street rush up to meet him as he stumbled out the door. He felt Ghost brush against his leg as he weaved through the streets. Catelyn Stark was whispering his ear. _Bastard. It should have been you. Why my husband’s true son over you?_

Jon felt himself tumbling towards the brick wall, his body slugging against it. Ghost padded to him, and Jon gave him a straining ruffle. He looked at the wolf’s fur, as pale and white as snow, and Jon could only think of the day when they found the pups. Five small and tiny things, drinking with abandon from the corpse of their mother. And a sixth one, tucked away beneath the bushes and trees. “By all rights I should not even have you,” he said. Ghost only looked at him quietly, and then lapped at Jon’s fingers. The tickling sensation brought half a laugh to Jon’s face.

Ser Wendel could talk of how much Jon had the blood of the Starks, but he was always a bastard. “You may not have my name, but you have my blood”, Father had assured him. Jon could feel the slight tingle of the morning heat on him as they rode through the Kingsroad. He wanted to say “Then why not make me a Stark? Give me your name. Make me your son.” But he was always too afraid to say those words. He only promised to return.

 

Now he was a world away from home, and he found himself crying then. The tears came more freely than they ever had any right to be. _I am a bastard. I did not deserve anything I had. I should not have known a brother’s love, or the willful smiles of a sister. Did I have ever your pride, Father? Was I ever truly the son of Eddard Stark?_

 

Ghost broke free of Jon’s embrace and padded away. “Ghost,” he called out, “where are you going?” The wolf made no answer. He groaned as he rose to his feet, the world shaking and beating as he did so. He followed in the wolf’s steps, taking a step into an alley.

He saw Ghost then, silent and fangs bared, and as Jon tumbled he saw why. In the darkest ends of the alley he saw men. Hands crossed against their chest, their hands holding knives and bludgeons, their clothes tattered at the frays. Two stood as the watchers, while the rest push and taunted at another. Someone weaker and with eyes full of fear.

“What are you doing here?” asked the first. “This does not concern you.”

“Best be gone, friend,” cautioned the second. “Take your dog and live another day?”

Jon could almost hear the shouts of his name. “What are you doing?” He could feel the pommel of his sword brush against his hand.

“Like I said. Something that does not concern you.”

There were six of them, Jon saw. Four of them were at work harassing the man in his fine silks, beating at him and tearing through his sleeves. One against six. They were impossible odds. Jon would have no chance against them. He heard someone call out his name. He had no choice. He drew out his sword. It felt heavy in his hands.

“Just who the fuck are you?” backed away the first man. The others at the end of the alley turned, their eyes sharp and ready. Their fingers were gripped around their jacks and knives.

“Only a bastard,” Jon said, with sword in hand.

 

**THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE**

 

She had been harbored by Illyrio Mopatis for half a year when the Stark boy was brought in. The night songs of the Red Priests were high and clear when the doors of the manse were thrown open. Viserys had raged when he saw the bloody man that was guided in on a stretcher. “Who is this, Illyrio!” Viserys’ hand had clenched into a fist, his fingers rubbing against a ring bought for him by their benefactor. And where only a few were needed for the boy, dozens were required to drag the fat and bloody corpse.

“Prince, my birds have told me that a son of the North had made his way to Pentos. I had hoped to meet with him before anything unfortunate had occurred.” Illyrio’s servants rushed past them, their hands filled with cloths and bandages. “Unfortunately, I was too late. One of them is dead, his life ripped from this world, and the other is clinging to his most desperately.”

The North. Viserys had called the Northmen barbarians and savages. “They are traitors,” Viserys had told her. He said they were in bed with the Stag and the Hawk. “They turned on their king. Our father. On _us._ ” The Northman that was ferried through the hall did not look old enough to have betrayed them. He looked as old as she.

“Why would you bring any Northman into our home, Illyrio?” But this wasn’t their home. _We are privileged guests. Illyrio gives us silk, spicy vintages. But we do not belong here._ Dany remembered a place that she called home. It was a house with a red door in Bravos. She remembered the lemon tree that grew outside the window of her room.

And she remembered Ser Willem Darry, however foggy. Viserys would tell her how Ser Willem and a few other loyal knights had broken into the nursery and escaped with them across the Narrow Sea. Ser Willem was a massive man, gray of hair and all strength. Even as he died on his bed, he was roaring at the servants of their house. They were all afraid of him. Even Viserys spoke softer around him. But he was always kind to Dany. She remembered how soft his hands were, like well-tanned leather. He had always called her “My Princess”.

But then Ser Willem died. The servants stole most of their belongings and wealth. Dany had cried when the red door shut behind them, closed to her forever.

She saw a white beast rush by, following the train of servants and trail of cloth. “And now you allow animals in your home?”

“There was no dissuading it,” the spice merchant said. He rubbed at his forked mustache. “It is the sigil of his father’s house, after all.”

Viserys’ eyes had opened wide then. His borrowed sword shook at his hips. “He is the son of Eddard Stark?” He had nearly screamed.

“He is the _bastard_ son of Eddard Stark,” Illyrio said, as if that would make all the difference. “And the fat one was Wendel Manderly, son of Lord Wyman Manderly, who controls the port city of White Harbor.” She could almost see the fury pour from her brother’s eyes. Viserys’ anger was known to Dany. He had called it “waking the dragon”, and she had woken it many a times. Sometimes she woke it just by being in his presence. Once she woke it because she was born too late, and if she had been born sooner than Rhaegar would have married her instead of the Stark woman. She thought, by that logic, it was Viserys’ fault that he was not born a girl.

Viserys had beaten her well for that.

It was not long after that the surgeon had arrived, followed by a servant holding a large box. “The Stark bastard has a fracture in the skull. I need invest to secure his life.”

“Save his life? He is the seed of a traitor!”

“Half of your kingdom rose up against your father, My Prince. Would you sentence them all to die as well?”

“If it suited me. I should salt their lands, and set their woods to ash. That is the might of the dragon. If I willed it, the traitors and all their offspring would die. They deserve nothing less.”

But it was not Illyrio Mopatis’ wish for the Northman to die. So the surgeon got to work. Servants surrounded the room, a small allowance by Illyrio. Dany had to step on her tiptoes to watch.  The Northman was strapped to a table, iron bands holding his head in place, rope for his hands and feet. The man’s hair was washed, and then it was shaved with a blade. The man squirmed, but he could do nothing as the surgeon cut into his scalp. The surgeon wielded the thin knife with precision and care. He did not falter as the Northman screamed with his gagged mouth. His hands rattled against the rope.

The surgeon had cut out a small and thin flap of the man’s head. The man howled behind his gag, his feet struggled and scraped against the wood. The surgeon produced a small circular saw, and pulling upon a lever cut into the skull. Shards of bloody bone fell from the table. The surgeon’s assistants collected the bloody shards into a small brass bowl.

Then Dany saw a metal plate in the surgeon’s hands. With slow and considerable care, he inserted the plate into the Northman’s flesh. The assistant gave a small hammer and a handful of nails. The nails were so tiny that Dany had to squint to see them.

And the surgeon hammered the plate into the skull. Every soft tap of the hammer must have been like a thunder in his mind, for the Northman yelled and screamed. By the fifth tap the Northman said no more. Dany feared him dead - to suffer so much only to die before the end. But Viserys only looked on in disapproval and the surgeon continued his work.

The Northman had to live, for as the assistant dressed the wound the surgeon felt the man’s neck. He nodded, pleased to himself. _Perhaps he only fainted. I would have fared much worse than him. Viserys even more so._ The man’s head was wrapped in bandages with such abundance Dany thought it looked like a turbine. The pure white bandages were soon a dark crimson.

With the Northman passed out, the surgeon was able to finish the rest of his work with ease. He used a knife to cut away at the man’s trousers, revealing a knife that had imbedded itself into his leg. He removed it with care. As the surgeon set to stitch the gash, his assistant went to work on the Northman’s neck. There was another cut there, although not nearly as deep. Dany imagined they would be tending to a corpse if that were not the case.

_The men of the north must be strong. How else could a man survive such wounds?_

As the Northman was being lifted to a bed, his fingers dangling, the surgeon set to terms with Illyrio. He kept his hand open for a flurry of golden towers that were placed within. “The boy will be asleep for a day, a week, or perhaps forever. It is hard to say with such afflictions. First there will be pus from the wounds. At first malignant, and then amiable. Set to cleaning the bandages every day with warm water. Steamier is best.”

“I will see that it is done,” Illyrio said as he rubbed at his belly. “You know your trade well.”

“I do,” the man said with pride. “I would advise a sacrifice to R’hllor. A white rabbit works best, I have found.”

“I shall have several produced. Thank you again.”

The surgeon shook his hand, filled with coin. “With pleasure, Master Mopatis. I will have my servant come daily with fresh bandages and poultices. He will see that they are applied correctly.”

In the days that passed, the corpse of Wyman Manderly was prepared. Viserys wanted him to be tossed into the sea, but Magister Illyrio said such an act would only bring misfortune upon them. Instead, Wyman Manderly was drowned in oils and burnt, and his ashes were contained in urn. “I will have it set aside, for the bastard to decide upon. Should he awake.”

The weeks rolled past, and the Northman did not awaken. But neither did he die. His white beast was always with him. When Dany could slip from Viserys, as he gorged on Illyrio’s plates or slept with one of the many pillow servants of the manse, she would try to visit the Northman. He was from Westeros. Viserys had always called it “Our land”, but Dany never knew it as hers. She had never even visited the Seven Kingdoms.

Viserys would tell her about Casterly Rock, High Garden, Sunspear, Winterfell, and all sorts of other names. Places that displayed the beauty and splendor of Westeros, the realms of influence and power throughout the kingdoms. But they were just names to her, letters on a map. This Northman knew them, surely. They weren’t just names to this man. They were his home. Westeros was his home.

At first Dany was scared of the beast. She would stay at the furthest edge of the room, as far from the beast as she could. The beast would look at her in silence, his red eyes beaming at her. But as the days became weeks, she found her courage. She drew closer to the Northman’s bedside. And the beast did not strike out. It did not growl or snarl. It looked at her in silence, as it always had.

And then it had walked out to her. At first Dany was frightened. She had never seen those crimson eyes take leave of its master before. But then Dany extended her hand, and the beast nuzzled against her. “You should have a name,” she said. She was certain the beast had one. All the dragons had names. Balerion, Sunfyre, Vhagar, Arrax and Moondancer. This wolf surely had one as well.

 _What is your name?_ She wondered what the Northman called himself. Viserys told her that the Northerners were a crass and barbaric people, and that their names reflected their nature. Names like Brandon, Rickard, Jonnel and Harlon. She did not see them so simple, but she did not voice those thoughts. She did not want to wake the dragon.

“His name is Jon Snow,” Illyrio told her once over a dinner of grapes and figs. The Magister ripped into the figs, and the red juices mixed with his golden and sheened beard. “At least, that is what my friends tell me. I have no reason to doubt it, Princess. Eddard Stark only broke his honor once, and that produced the boy sleeping in my bed.”

“He is a living corpse,” spat Viserys. “Snuff out his life now. To live as such is a waste.”

_But what are we? Are we not beggars? Is that not worse?_

Viserys would be mistaken. In the days that followed, the boy’s fingers began to twitch. Dany could see his eyes move and convulse behind his eyelids. But they did not open. She saw his fingers curve, ready to tighten into a fist. But they did not. She heard a gurgling in his throat, as he prepared to speak. But he said no words.

As Jon’s condition improved, Viserys set to distract her. He displayed on her many lovely gowns granted by Illyrio. Silk from Myr, jewels from Volantis, baubles from far and distant lands. She was awed by them all, of course. She had never felt anything so soft, or graced with jewels that shone so brightly. Viserys said she was a princess, but it was only then that she felt like one.

 _Why are you giving me these things, Brother?_ But she dared not voice her thoughts to him. She did not want to wake the dragon.

Then came the day when Viserys presented her with the finest fabric Dany had ever seen. “Come on, feel the fabric,” he said softly. Urgently. She felt the hems of the dress, and it was soft as wind, and twice as soothing. She felt frightened. She knew this came with a cost. She pulled away.

“A gift upon gifts,” she said. Illyrio had blessed them with endless gifts. Viserys’ image was overflowing with them. The rings on his fingers, the dragon brooch on his shirt, his fine leather boots. Even the pride in his voice was bought with the luxuries the Magister had provided. “The Magister continues to help us, and he asks for nothing.” Dany was afraid to ask, afraid to say anything that would anger her brother. But she could not keep her curiosities from her lips.

A knowing smile came to Viserys’ lips. “Illyrio knows his friends well. He will be remembered when I ascend to the Iron Throne. The dress will bring out the violet of your eyes. You will be a beauty to behold.” _You have said that many a times, to calm me. Or when you would threaten to put your son in me._ Despite the warmth of summer, Dany felt a chill race up her arms.

One of the servants came and took the dress from Viserys’ hands. “Come sister,” he said as he showed her his hand. She took it. “Let us feast outside.” And Viserys led her through the winding halls of the manse. More than half a year they have been houses by the Magister, and still Dany could barely find her way. She longed for a much smaller home. Some stretches of the hall she knew, such as the long passage that led to her chambers. It was the one with the window open to the coast and the bed wide enough for three.

They ate upon a wide circular table, carved from a thick and dark wood. It was adorned with mint tea, legs of duck, and sweetened honeyfingers. Dany kept quiet as Viserys and Illyrio spoke amongst themselves. She would nod in approval when asked, but otherwise sipped at her tea.

Then Viserys looked to her. “I have news, sister. You are to be wed.”

Her heart stopped. “To whom?”

“To Khal Drogo,” Illyrio Mopatis said. He wiped honey from his lips and sucked on his fingers. “Khal of Khals, some say, or soon will be. He gathers upon him a wide host. Dothraki, Ghiscari, men freed and proud. And slaves aplenty, of course. A large and fascinating court. Many were gifts from his father, Khal Bharbo, who envisioned a Golden Horde for himself. The son has inherited that dream.”

“And with such a horde I shall descend upon my kingdoms. Sweet sister, your marriage bed shall be the key to my throne.”

Dany felt a clutch in her throat. She felt her fingers grow cold. “Who is this man?” She said the words so softly.

Illyrio shrugged. “He is a Khal of the Dothraki. A leader of men, a great warrior. He takes what he wants. Gifts, lives, women. He surely has a great many bastards that he knows not of.” _A rapist and a murderer. My brother will sell me to a monster._ Dany knew of the Dothraki. Illyrio had told her once that the Free City of Pentos gives a great bounty to many khalasar every year. But most of all to the Golden Horde. “We could fight them off, for Pentos is great and powerful. But why do so, when peace comes so cheap and easily?”

She heard footsteps behind her. Servants began to gather the plates. She had always assumed Viserys would be the one to claim her. The Targaryens had always wed brother to sister, to keep the blood pure and strong. Viserys had said as such a thousand times. Theirs was the blood of Old Valyria, of the dragonlords and rulers of the Seven Kingdoms. She had feared the day when Viserys would name her wife. But she feared marrying a stranger far more. “I do not want to marry him. I do not want him to be my lord husband. I want to go home.” She remembered the house with the red door and the gentle breeze of Braavos.

Illyrio was quiet. He did not snatch another honeyfinger from the bowl in front of him. Viserys ground at his teeth. He stood up and approached her. The world was silent. “It is not about what you want.” He then pinched her at the chin, and his fingers dug into her bone. She wanted to pull away but his grip was too strong. “It is about your duty to me. Make no mistake, sweet sister. I would let all forty-thousand of his khalasar fuck you, and their horses too, if that is what it took. You serve House Targaryen in all things, and I am House Targaryen. I am the last dragon.”

Then she heard the sound of something hard hitting the ground, like a stick striking against stone. “Is she not a Princess of Dragonstone?” The voice was hard, full of fury and anger. Dany, Viserys and Illyrio Mopatis turned. It was Jon Snow. He was leaning on a cane, his hand wobbling. His loose robe flowed from him. His other hand held onto the railing of the stairway, and he stepped down. She saw with every step there was a slight grimace on his face.

But she saw his eyes. They were gray, like the sky of a distant storm. But there was a hotness to them, a fury like her brother’s. But instead of being focused on her, Jon looked only towards Viserys. The pain must have echoed through his every step, and yet his focus did not waver. _Stay away. Please. You will only awaken the dragon. I deserve the words. I spoke out. Run_

But Jon of Winterfell, of Westeros, of the Seven Kingdoms that were denied her brother, did not run. The white wolf was by his side, his silent companion. How much strength did the wolf give to master? The wolf stared at her as his master approached, and the master stared only at Viserys. “You would barter her like meat.”

Viserys released his grip. She felt the pain echo through her chin.

“Jon Snow,” said Illyrio Mopatis with a smile, “I welcome you back to the world of the living.”

The Northman did not turn to face the Magister.

Dany could hear the rattling of her brother’s loaned blade as he shook with fury. _The dragon is awoke. Run from him._ But Jon did not. He stared with defiance into her brother. Viserys’ balled his hands into a fist, his ivory fingers rubbing against his loaned rings. “I am the Dragon’s son. I do what is best for everyone. Who are you to say how I treat her?”

“You treat her like meat,” Jon said. Dany sucked in a breath. “She is your sister, and you barter her like an auroch.”

“How dare you!” screamed her brother. He raced towards Jon, but Illyrio stood between them.

“My Prince, please. Jon is a bastard, he knows not the way of respect. He simply only cares for the wellbeing of your sister, whom he recognizes as the true Princess of the Kingdoms. Is that not right, Jon of Winterfell?” Illyrio looked to Jon, and at first his iron gaze was transfixed on the Magister.

She felt the designs of the dragon brooch upon her breast. _My brother is the dragon. And his passions are wild._ “Brother, please.” She laid her hands on the sleeve of Viserys’ coat. “He is recovering from his wounds. You saw what the surgeon had to do to heal him. The Northman are strong, but blunt. You said so to me yourself. He is simply healing. His head it is not right. Is that not true, Jon of Winterfell? Are you not well?”

Jon looked to her, and she saw his iron eyes soften. “Yes,” he slurred. “I am not well. I know not my way. I see no servants near me. Could the Princess escort me to my chambers? Surely she knows the way.”

 _I know not. I am simply my brother’s sister._ But then Jon offered his free hand, his right still clutching to the head of the cane. She looked to Viserys but he did not look to her. She took a step and wrapped her arm around Jon Snow’s. He leaned against her for support, and she felt his warmth dance across her naked arm.

“I thank you for your kindness,” Jon said softly. It was a softness she had heard before. Ser Willem Darry often spoke as such to her. The bastard’s fingers were soft, like new leather. His steps were in tone with her own.

She thought of looking back to Viserys, to hear his cries of protest and rage. But she did not want to look away from Jon Snow of Winterfell. “You are very welcome.” They climbed the steps, Dany to his left, and the wolf to his right. She looked at Ghost for a moment.

“Are you frightened of Ghost?”

“Is that his name?” She had heard stories of the specters of Valyria. They frightened her as a child. Even now as a woman, she thought of them as fuel for nightmares. “It is not very fitting if true. I don’t fear him.”

Jon smiled, and she found herself smiling in turn. “That’s what I call him. He is quiet as the wind. Besides the steps of his paws or his drooling tongue, he won’t make a sound. He won’t wake you with night howls.” Jon smiled. “Perhaps I should have given a name after the wind, but my brother Robb got that honor first. He named his wolf Greywind.”

“Do all Starks have a wolf as pets? As my ancestors rode dragons?”

“All of my brothers and sisters do.” Dany saw a sadness in Jon’s eyes.

“Are they not well?” Dany said. She regretted saying the words.

“They are. My brother Robb is Lord of Winterfell. My sister Sansa, she is to be wed. My sister Arya, she has gone with her. And my brother Bran -” and Jon stopped speaking. His steps slowed to a stop, and Dany was almost afraid to look at him. But when she did, she saw that his eyes were soft. “He fell from a great height. He has never fallen, from branch or wall. I saw him climb a wall while it was raining, and although his Lady Mother screamed at him, Bran did not fall down. But days before I was to leave, he fell from a tower. He was still in bed when I rode for White Harbor.”

“I am sorry,” she said at once. “I should not have asked.”

But then Jon tapped her on the arm. “You meant no disrespect, My Lady.”

None had ever called her that before. She knew that in the wine sinks of the Free Cities her brother was known as the ‘Beggar King’. She dared not ask what _she_ was called.

“Were you close? With your brothers and sisters?” Viserys had ripped at her hair and twisted at her breasts, but he was all that she had. He had taught her about Father and Mother, about the legacies of their family. If not for Viserys, she would have had nothing. Perhaps that meant they were close.

He nodded. “I was.” Jon Snow chewed on his lips. “My Lady, may I speak?”

She had never been asked for permission to speak. “You may,” she said, unsure.

“Do not marry this man, this Khal Drogo, if you do not wish it.”

“But it is my brother’s wish.”

“He is no brother to you. I would never treat any of my sisters in such a way. If I saw any man do the same to them, they would be missing a hand.”

 _And my brother would sell me. But he is my brother. He is all I have. He saved me from the Usurper’s knives._ She wondered if this was the way of knights that her brother told her about. Her brother said that knights would ride in tourneys and compete for a lady’s favor. Many a highborn wedding were conceived on the jousting track. But this was no tourney, and Jon Snow spoke of harming her brother. Her brother that is selling her. But Viserys must sit on the Iron Throne. It is his right and privilege. And she must help him in this, in whatever way she can. She is weak; she will not lead armies, and cannot wield a sword. But she can marry a man that will give her brother the army that he needs.

“I know my place, Jon Snow.” And then they arrived at his chamber doors. “He is my brother, and my king. _Your_ king.” Jon furrowed his brows. _The truth is hurtful_. “Please rest well. Will I see you on the morrow?”

Jon gripped his cane. “I imagine so. I don’t think I would get too far like this.” He forced a waned smile.

Dany smiled. “Then make peace with my brother, if you will be Illyrio Mopatis’ guest.”

Jon was quiet. His fingers were gripping the head of the cane. “If that is your wish.”

“It is,” she said, with a mummer’s confidence.

 

**THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL**

 

The Princess was well ahead of Khal Drogo. But it would not last. She was not a skilled rider. Jon could see that, as far as he was from beneath the shade of the tent. They rode across the field and Khal Drogo was on her almost as soon as the chase had begun.

“The chase is purely ceremonial,” Illyrio Mopatis explained. For once the Magister was not stuffing himself with exotic meals as he spoke. “Although I have heard that most Dothraki brides put on more of a challenge than our dear Princess.”

The issue is she is not Dothraki. She is of Westeros.

Viserys was sitting on a plush chair, his ivory fingers fiddling with a dragon-stamped ring on his finger. His violet eyes narrowed as Khal Drogo ripped his sister from her brown mare and forced her onto his black coursier. Jon could hear her yells and gasps from even beneath the tent.

Ghost was sitting beside him. Jon rubbed at his white fur with his free hand. In the weeks that had passed, his fingers and knees had stopped shaking, and strength had returned to his wrists. If he were to feel the back of his head, he could still feel the scars. But his hair had begun to return. His knees still burned whenever he bent, but the cane helped. Illyrio was confident Jon would have his full strength when the many lords of the Golden Horde came to Pentos. It had been nearly a month since Jon was nearly killed, and a few weeks more before Daenerys’ marriage.

The night before Illyrio had invited Jon to a dinner in the privacy of his solar. Jon was provided a dish with a single dragon-pepper, hollowed out and filled with rice and pineapples. “A treat from Tyrosh,” the Magister explained. “The spices and the sweet juices are absorbed by the rice. A wonderful course, for those with a seasoned stomach.”  As he spoke juices flowed down the folds of his chin.

Jon filled his mouth with a spoonful of rice and pineapples. The sweetness washed away the hot rush of the spices. “You have kept me a month under your roof, and have never asked for anything in return. You healed me, gave me food and shelter. Put clothes on my back.”

“I am a gracious man.”

“Magister,” Jon said with doubt, “we both know you did not become so rich because of your generosity. My father is an enemy to Daenerys and Viserys. He is the Hand of the King.”

“My birds have said as such.”

“So why am I here?”

Illyrio wiped the juices from his lips. “Because I have a gift for you.” He made a motion, and one of the servants arrived holding a clay urn with copper engravings. Jon knew at once whom it was.

“Ser Wendel,” he breathed. He lifted off the cover and looked into it. The man was so large, he was several stones over Jon’s weight. But as he stared into the urn, as he looked at Wendel Manderly of White Harbor, Jon felt so small. _He died because of me. Father sent him to guide my way into Essos, and now he is dead._

Illyrio fed himself another spoonful. “He was returned to form in the image of the Lord of Light. We were made from ash, and we return to it.”

Jon placed the lid on the urn with care. _Ser Wendel told me to beware the Red Priests._ “I never imagined you for a man of religion, Magister.”

He smiled. “We are made up of so many illusions, Lord Snow, and all but a few of them we keep to yourself. Do you know me? Truly? Am I just a magister of spices and wine?”

 _No. You have some secrets you hold to yourself._ Whenever Jon looked on Viserys, he could feel only hate. But whenever he looked at Illyrio Mopatis, he knew the man was not to be trusted. “Why am I still here, Magister? You know that Viserys and I are no friends. Just my being here threatens…whatever it is you are trying to do. What do you want from me?”

“To keep Daenerys company. Because I care for her well-being.”

“Her _well-being_ ,” Jon scoffed. “You are selling her to a warlord.”

“This is true.”

“Her brother is selling her to a murderer and a slaver.”

“That is also true.”

“She is being enslaved, to a man she does not know, to a culture she can’t understand. And you speak of her well-being?”

“All you say is true, Jon Snow of Winterfell. But perhaps some things are worth more than a girl’s tears. A day comes when the glitter of gold loses meaning, where all jewels lose their luster, and promises hold all power. I would see a dragon on the throne. And I would see the wolf beneath my roof amongst the swords of Bittersteel.”

“To see me with the Golden Company?” His appetite escaped him. He placed the silver spoon on the table. “How does that benefit you?” He rolled his thumb across his fist. _I am in his house. I must look respectful and dutiful._ Jon kept the rage from pouring out of his tongue.

“Because the dragon needs friends among the Golden Company. The Dothraki are formidable and fierce, but they are a horde. Even a Khalasar as disciplined as Khal Drogo’s cannot hide its true nature. The Golden Company shall be the foundation of the dragon’s return to Westeros.”

_Father told me how high a bastard can rise in the Golden Company. He told me the Blackfyres are dead. The men of the Company have no reason to return to Westeros. So why would they ally with the Targaryens?_

What does Illyrio know of the Golden Company?

“When will I be allowed to leave, Magister?”

“After the wedding,” Illyrio said as he ate from a pepper filled with rice.

“Not before?” Illyrio had simply smiled. “What am I, a prisoner or a guest?”

“Both,” Illyrio had said as he licked at his lips. “I shall take no risks concerning you, Jon Snow of Winterfell. It would be a poor investment for you to collapse and die a day after leaving my manse. And, the world does not need you to wander through Essos aimlessly. You have worth in the Golden Company. A capable and strong young man would be valued to the legions of Bittersteel. With Ser Jorah having sworn to protect the Targaryens, I do not fear for her safety. She will be well. Let me help you, Jon Snow. In doing this, you can help the Princess as well.”

Ser Jorah sipped from his Tyroshi pear brandy as he watched Khal Drogo return with Daenerys. The entire North knew of Jorah Mormont’s crimes. The man was a kin slayer. He had drained the coffers of his house, and killed his cousin. But why swear fealty to the Targaryens? The man had fought against the Targaryens in the Rebellion, he and the rest of the North. Viserys had taken his vow instantly, and had seemed pleased that his Kingsguard was swelling on the eve of his sister’s wedding. But it would be her husband’s army that wins back Westeros.

Illyrio’s words echoed in Jon’s mind. The Magister said that he could trust in the exile to protect Daenerys, but Jon had no faith in such a statement. The man was a craven. He had murdered Jirah Mormont and fled from Westeros in disgrace _. How did you find the Targaryens so easily?_ _If Father knew they were sheltered by Illyrio, he would not have sent me to Pentos. And yet you came with such ease into Illyrio’s manse._

At Illyrio’s side sat a man with slick dark hair and deep copper skin. He called himself Hezzare. He was dressed in a black robe. “The Khal is surely pleased, Master Illyrio. She is a beautiful bride.”

“And when will I have my armies?” Viserys snapped.

“In time, Prince of the Andals. After the wedding, the Khal of Khals shall ride for Vaes Khadokh. The Shadowbinder favors war. But not war across the sea. Not yet.”

To Viserys’ credit, he did not lash out. But Jon could hear the Targaryen’s grip fasten on his fingers. Jon wondered how long until they would snap. Illyrio seemed displeased. He did not reach for another honeyfinger. “There are some who would remember Vaes Khadokh as Essaria, the tenth of the Free Cities.”

Hezzare smiled. “And their children will remember Vaes Khadokh as Vaes Sash. The New City, for a new Dothraki.” He sipped from the peach brandy. “For a new world.” Every word from the Ghiscari unnerved Jon. The man was doused in perfumes, and when Jon shook his hand a fine powder was left on his glove. Every action he was seeing unnerved him. A man should be in perfume and powder. A husband does not rip a wife from her horse. A wife should not scream and yell. And a brother should not sell his sister to a murderer.

And a Northman should not feel shame for a Targaryen. He knew what happened to his grandfather and uncle. Their deaths were at the hands of a monster, and the whole of the Kingdoms rose up against him. I should be glad for the Princess. This is the fruit that her family had reaped. But Jon only felt sickened by the thought. Daenerys was surely no younger than him, and Jon knew nothing of the war. He was a babe sucking at his mother’s teats in the final months. Was she even born when King Robert first sat on the Iron Throne?

It was nightfall when they returned to Illyrio’s manse. Viserys had looked pleased with himself. All he could talk about what the army that Khal Drogo would provide him with. Illyrio smiled at all of Viserys’ claims, assuring the Prince that the Dothraki honor all gifts granted him. Viserys did not seem to get the hint that Khal Drogo may not necessarily provide him with an army. And Daenerys remained quiet in the litter, her fingers entwined at her lap.

“You do not need do this,” he wanted to say. “Your brother is a fool.” But he couldn’t find himself to say the words. Jon remained silent as they were carried to the manse, his fingers gripping the cane.

 

**THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE**

 

Viserys was staring at Jon again, as they feasted on boiled ostrich eggs. It had been several months since Jon was brought into Illyrio’s manse, and the Northman had nearly healed. There were still flickers of pain, momentary spasms where his hands and knees would shake, Jon Snow looked restored. Viserys could not hide the seething look of his eyes whenever he saw Jon Snow. He surely saw the northman’s recovery as an insult. And for his part, Jon Snow remained ever defiant. When Viserys was hot, Jon was cool. If Viserys ever spoke of home, Jon would casually mention it in greater detail. Jon Snow was on the edge of a knife, somewhere between respect and insults, and he kept a beautiful balance.

Dany had insisted that Jon Snow make peace with her brother, their rightful king. And although the Northman swore he would, his actions said otherwise. He still looked at Viserys with a cold fury in his eyes. Dany could not blame him. Viserys was a difficult man to love. But he was her brother – she had to love him. Viserys was all that she had.

“Khal Drogo has brought a massive host to Pentos,” Ser Jorah announced as he sipped from Tyroshi brandy. The man seemed to favor the drink. “Forty thousand riders, and that does not account for any of the women or children.”

“My fellow magisters have doubled the city guard,” Illyrio Mopatis said with a smile. His yellow teeth ripped through the egg. “The Golden Horde has made my city very nervous indeed.”

“Then the Princess should be married before they grow even more nervous,” Ser Jorah said. Dany saw that Jon just lightly shook his head. Dany knew how pleased Jon was with this marriage – that is to say, not at all. And the idea of wedding a khal filled Dany with fear. The Century of Blood that followed Valyria’s Doom was named in their honor. They savaged cities, put kingdoms to the sword, and threw Essos onto the precipice of doom.

Jon Snow never voiced disapproval, but she could see it in every step he took. He did not want Dany to marry Khal Drogo. She did not want to marry Khal Drogo. If Jon Snow came to her with Ghost in the middle of night, and asked her to flee with him, she did not think she would refuse him. The thought both excited and frightened her.

“So long as I can get my army,” Viserys rubbed at his dragon-stamped ring, “then Khal Drogo can have her.” Dany saw the flare in Jon’s eyes. If Dany hadn’t pleaded with him to respect her brother, she was certain Jon would have risen from the table in a fury. Viserys turned towards her, and before Dany would have lowered her eyes. She did not want to see his stare, in fear of waking the dragon. But Jon looked to her then, and she found a comforting look in him. She looked at her brother.

“The Dothraki honor all gifts, Your Grace.” Ser Jorah spoke with a respect that placated her brother. “But in their own time.” Viserys frowned at that. “Khalasars can spend years before they send another city to the flames, if a previous raid gave enough of a bounty.”

Viserys’ nostrils flared in fury. “I will _not_ wait years before I am given my throne! Twenty years I have suffered because of that bastard’s father. Him and the _Usurper._ ”

Jon Snow was about to rise then. She saw the hot steel in his eyes. But Ser Jorah placed a steady hand on the Northman’s shoulders. Jon slowly fell back into his seat. “One must not presume to demand of a khal,” Ser Jorah advised. “To the Khal, you shall be a lesser man. Even less than your sister, whom would become his Khaleesi.”

“The dragon does _not_ beg,” Viserys seethed. “Guard your tongue Mormont, or I will find ways to remove it.” Ser Jorah bowed his head out of respect. Dany wanted to say that there were no dragons left in the world.

But Jon said it first. “The last dragon died on the Trident.” His gray eyes were narrowed. “So you should tread carefully amongst the Dothraki. Your Grace.” Dany almost gasped. Ser Jorah narrowed his eyes, Magister Illyrio sighed.

And Viserys screamed. “I am the last dragon! I am the son of the last true king of Westeros! I should feast on your black heart, _bastard_.”

“I do not think Jon Snow meant disrespect, Your Grace,” Illyrio said quickly. Dany did not miss the critical glance he gave to Jon. “Rhaegar Targaryen is referred to as the Last Dragon with _affection_. It is a sign of how much the people wish for you to return home and claim your birthright. Is that not true, Jorah Mormont?”

“It is,” Ser Jorah said. But the reply was so cold that Dany was not convinced. But Viserys was, and she saw the temper recede in him. He bit into his ostrich egg, and she saw the white clumps dance down his chin. Illyrio always insisted that the people want them to return home. He says that his birds say as such. But Dany has no agents of her own, and all she could do was place her trust in the Magister.

And for all his gifts of velvets and silver, Dany did not trust Illyrio Mopatis.

That night she tried to sleep, but all she could think about was her wedding. It would only be a few more days now. The Golden Horde had made their camps around Pentos and along the dragonroads. Khal Drogo had summoned his lords and allies to witness the ceremony. Dany’s heart felt like it was beating like a drum. It was so hard and forceful she could have sworn it would burst through her chest.

Then she heard a familiar sound padding along the floor. She turned and saw Ghost, his red eyes staring at her through the narrow slip of the door. Dany considered, for half of a moment, of turning on her side and hoping she would find sleep. She slipped out of the covers and walked over to the direwolf. The marble floor was cold in the night; she felt the chill race up through her toes.

She opened the door. Ghost was staring at her, as silent as always. _Your name is so fitting._ She remembered how Viserys told her that she was named after the sister of Daeron the Good, who was wed to Maron Martell. Her union brought Dorne into the Seven Kingdoms. But what would her union bring? Death and fire?

Dany reached for Ghost, but the wolf turned from her. He took a dozen steps, but then Ghost turned his head towards her. “Do you want me to follow?” Ghost gave no reply as he padded away. Dany chewed on her lip. Viserys would be furious if he found her slipping through the halls of Illyrio’s manse so late at night, like some kind of bandit. But Ghost would be with her, and Viserys would not dare wake the dragon in the wolf’s presence.

She followed Ghost down the halls, and he led her to a chamber she was so familiar with. _This is Jon’s room._ The door was slightly ajar, probably from when Ghost had slipped out. She saw the orange glow of a brazier emanate from the room. Slowly she opened the door. “Jon?” Jon looked to her. He sitting across his bed. “Did I wake you?”

Jon shook his head. “No. I was just thinking.” She stepped inside. “Trying to imagine what will come next.”

“After my wedding?”

He nodded. “Illyrio said he will have someone from the Golden Company escort me to Myr. They were hired there. Apparently, there is a war brewing.” He rubbed at his lips. “I never imagined I would join with the Golden Company.”

For some reason, Dany felt bold. “Did you imagine meeting the Targaryens? When you arrived in Pentos?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I don’t think my father would have sent me to Pentos if he knew that you were here.”

Dany bit on her lip. She wanted to name him the Usurper’s dog. Viserys always called Lord Stark the dog of the Usurper. Eddard Stark had joined with Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn of the Vale to drive them from their homes. Viserys had no shortage of curses for them. “I am glad he didn’t know. Your presence has been…a kindness.”

Jon smiled. Dany rarely saw him smile. She wished he did it more. _Your face shines when you bring some warmth to it._ “I’m glad for that. I know your brother does not hide his feelings of me. If he could have me hanged from my neck, would.”

Dany sucked in a breath. She could not imagine Jon dying. “You should be weary of my brother.”

Jon Snow narrowed his eyes. “Viserys needs to be weary of everyone else. My little sisters could fend him off.” Jon sighed, and then he looked at her. There was a softer look in his eyes. It reminded her so much of how Ser Willem would look at her, even as he laid dying in his bed. “You do not need to be afraid of him. Viserys is...he has no strength. All words, nothing to back themselves up with. I’ve heard stories of your family, before the Rebellion. Viserys is nothing like them.”

“You knew of my family? My ancestors?” She couldn’t keep the excitement from her voice. She found herself stepping towards the bed. Jon slid to the side, and she sat beside him. “Viserys always told me stories, but I thought that the people back home…that they didn’t remember.”

Jon shook his head. “Maester Luwin told me about the ancient Targaryens. I loved hearing on the life of Daeron. The Young Dragon.”

“Daeron.” She spoke the name softly. She had heard of the man before. Viserys told her how after the Dance of the Dragons that the first Daeron led the Kingdoms into Dorne. She wondered what someone who was not a Targaryen knew of her family. “Could you tell me about him?”

Jon’s eyes glowed. “He was the son of Aegon, the Third of His Name. Or maybe it was the Fourth? Aegon the Conqueror always wanted to conquer Dorne, but he never could. But Daeron wanted to do what his ancestor couldn’t. He wanted to finish what Aegon started. And he would do it without the dragons. They had all died by then.”

“How could he? If the Conqueror couldn’t take Dorne with dragons, how could Daeron dream of it?”

There was a sly smile on Jon’s face. “His lords thought the same thing. He said ‘You have a dragon. He stands before you’.” Dany felt a shiver course through her. _He was a true dragon, a mighty king._ “He used the goatsway to avoid the traps the Dornish had set for Aegon and his sister-wives. Two other armies, led by the Tyrells and the Velaryons, attacked elsewhere. It took a year, but the Prince of Sunspear surrendered.”

“So Rhaenys and Meraxes were avenged.” Viserys had often told her how it was the Dornish that killed Aegon’s most precious sister and wife.

Jon shook his head. “Not quite. The Dornish rebelled from the mountains. In another year’s time, there was a third war for Dorne. And when Aegon agreed to meet with the Dornish for peace terms, they killed him. Under a white banner.”

“But Dorne were our allies in the war,” Dany said. “When the Usurper came, Prince Lewlyn led the forces of Sunspear.”

“Maybe,” Jon said. “But not when Daeron was king.”

“Jon Snow,” she said after a time. “Perhaps I could speak to my betrothed. The Golden Horde needs men, and perhaps the Golden Company could be of use. I would very much like to see you again. I would like for you to tell me more stories about my family.” _I would like to see you smile again._ Her heart beat in a flutter.

He smiled again. “For what it is worth, Princess, so would I.”

**THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL**

 

Daenerys Targaryen was wedded with all of the splendor and barbarism demanded by the Dothraki. The ceremony went from dawn to dusk, an endless reverie of drinking and fighting and boasting and raping. That is what Jon called it, but Illyrio Mopatis explained that a Dothraki man can take any woman. So long as he is able to fight for the right. Just as many Dothraki were adorned in  rich perfumes and robes of silk as those that had not. “Khal Drogo has created a crisis within the Dothraki,” Illyrio said to Viserys. “Will they accept his new world, or die defending their old one?” Men and women in painted leathers moved amongst those in rich silk dresses. Jon could hear the jingling of bronze coin belts over the bellows of the festivities. Khal Drogo himself wore a glimmering red robe that was adorned in fox furs. He drank from a large bronze bowl, the mare wine seeping down his dark beard.

The Princess was seated beside her new husband, with Viserys and Illyrio below them. Jon would consider that an honor - he was glad to be sat just beneath them. Even at home he was placed at the far side of the Feast Hall. But he could see the rage in Viserys’ eyes. The Khal and the Princess were given the first offerings of every dish, and that was all passed down. Viserys’ fist tightened at his knees with every second helping.

Even at his sister’s wedding, Viserys demanded to be first in all things.

Jon was seated amongst the bloodriders, advisors, guests and companions of the khal. Down the grass platform were the bloodriders of the Khal; Cohollo, Qotho and Haggo. Even Khal Drogo’s mother, Virenni, was not too far from him. That was an honor in his mind, as twisted as it was. He was half expected to be sent amongst the throngs of the Khal Drogo’s Khalasar. He remembered when he joined the feast his family threw for the king. His brothers and sisters sat amongst the royal family. Robb sat a breath away from Princess Myrcella.

But Jon was not with them. For all of his Lord Father’s talk of how he still had the blood of Starks, Lady Catelyn did not want him on the high table. He had eaten and drank alongside the squires and stablehands, while his brothers and sisters feasted with the royal family. _I was where I belonged. I could never hide who I was._

But as richly dressed as the Dothraki were, they could not hide what they were: barbarians that called the wastelands of Essos their own. Even the most well robed of the Dothraki still roared over the cooking fires, ripping apart horse meat that gleaned with honey and the buzzing of flies. The Dothraki wrestled and slapped, roared and cheered, filled themselves with spiced wines and fine arbors. Khal Drogo shouted out encouragements, and the Khalasar would cheer and roar whenever he did so.

Jon watched as an argument broke out between two Dothraki. They pulled out their arakhs, the crescent and slender blades renowned by any Khalasar. A slow and deadly dance ensued. The two Dothraki stared at each other, their curved swords glimmering in the summer sky. They threatened and pointed, and then they struck at each other. A blade reached too far, one of them took too liberal of a step, and curved blade met soft and supple flesh. With a twist, the man’s belly was split open and gore dropped onto the ground. Applause followed.

“A Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is considered a dull affair,” explained Illyrio. Jon looked back.

Viserys was grinning in amusement. Jon could not help his mouth from going agape. He prayed in silence. _May he never go to Westeros. Don’t let him even approach the Essosi coast, lest he grow wings and take flight._ Would he need to kill Viserys to make sure that never happened? As he watched the roar of the celebration, he wrestled with the thought in his mind.

He found his eyes wandering to Daenerys. Her hands were nowhere close to that of her husband’s. Khal Drogo keeps his hands on his knees as he leaned forward, eying the reverie laid down before him. He would often shout out encouragements to his followers below. Jon did not think he said a word to his wife. Not like she would understand a word of Dothraki, or he any of the Common Tongue. As he looked at Daenerys, Jon could not help but think of Arya. Whenever she was in trouble, Arya would snuggle away in Jon’s chamber, away from the vindication of Lady Stark or Septa Mordane. But the Princess had no place to hide. She was for all to see.

A flight of fantasy took over him. He imagined saving her, right then and there. He would rise up, draw out his wolf-marked sword, call out Ghost to him, cut down Viserys, cut down Khal Drogo, lift the Princess into his arms like Florian would Jonquil, and run. Run as far from Pentos, Khal Drogo, slavery and all the rest. Save Westeros and the Princess both in equal measure. Allow Daenerys to live a life of her choosing. Forge a life of his own making.

The idea left him just as quickly as it arrived. How could Jon cut through a huge horde of men? Khal Drogo’s large mane of dark, coarse hair was braided with a multitude of bells. Each bell signified a victory. Khal Drogo had never lost a battle. Jon was good, but Khal Drogo was better. And assuming he was able to kill the Khal, Jon could not escape the Khalasar. The Dothraki were called the horse lords for good reason. They would ride and strike Jon down in moments. _I dream as Sansa would. Just far more dangerously._

Jon chewed on his lip. At the far end of the ridge sat the woman in the red mask. From the moment the Khalasar arrived for the wedding, this cloaked woman rode amongst them. But she was apart from them as well. No dothraki rode any closer than necessary. “She is Quaithe of the Shadow,” Illyrio had whispered to Viserys.

Her eyes were always on Daenerys. And Jon could not help but think that she was always staring at him as well.

“You look displeased, Jon the Andal.” Hezzare was drinking from a bowl of mare wine. “Is it so unusual, to see murder and copulation at a wedding?”

“It is,” Jon said.

“I agree. And so does the Khal. But some things are harder to cut out than the hearts of your enemies. I would rather feast upon honeyed locusts than horse meat, but here I am. And yet here you are, so far from home.”

“I was invited.”

“And one does not turn away the invitation from a bride so beautiful. If Daenerys is the Dragon’s daughter, she shall need to unleash it. My lord is civilized and enlightened, but he is still a warlord at heart.”

Jon’s father was civilized. He was the Warden of the North and the Lord of Winterfell. If Ned Stark was in Jon’s place, he would summon his banners and remove the Dothraki from the world. But Jon was no Lord, and he had no bannermen to call upon.

“Tell me Hezzare. Are you an honest man?”

“As much as my Khal needs me to be. Speak your mind, Andal, and I just might show you mine.”

“Why does the Khal want Daenerys? His Khalasar must have...I don’t know if you would call them lords. Would you?” The Ghiscari nodded. “Why not marry one of their daughters? Solidify alliances, make sure none would rebel against him? The Princess is an outsider. She is _not_ Dothraki.”

Hezzare smiled as he drank from the bowl. “I misjudged you Andal. I thought you a simpleton. You would be true, completely, if Khal Drogo was just a khal. But he shall be the Khal of Khals by his own hand. He has already carved out his own capital. Free Men, Dothraki, and Ghiscari flood towards Vaes Sash.”

“So it is symbolic. A new royalty, for a new empire.”

Hezzare nodded. “Precisely. The merging of the east and the west. The last daughter of the dragons, with the first son of the horse lords. When the dragon and the horse marry, the world shall shake.” He smiled then, thinly as he wiped the mare wine from his lips. “But let me ask you something, Jon the Andal, since the mare wine have made us such good friends. Why are you so concerned about the girl? If I remember right, your people forced her from her home.” My _father did fight against King Aerys. But only after my uncle and grandfather were burned at the King’s command._ “Illyrio Mopatis offered to send you to the Golden Company with the highest regards.” _A bastard could rise high within the Golden Company. Bittersteel was a bastard himself. Father told me to make a life of my own making in Essos._ “So why these questions? Why such displays of concern?”

_Because Eddard Stark would do nothing less._

As the festivities came to an end, it was time for the couple to be presented with their gifts. First came the dothraki honors. First was a bow made from dragonbone. Daenerys refused it and granted it to her husband. Then an arakh, and again Daenerys passed it onto her husband. And lastly a whip tanned from fine and thick leather. It cracked with power. Daenerys imparted it onto her husband. A Dothraki ritual of the wife bowing to her husband. _She cannot even have a gift of her own choosing._

Then Viserys arrived with three women. Two had the hard skin and black hair of the Dothraki, while the third was fair and golden haired. “Sweet sister,” Viserys says with all the appeal of a viper, “these are my gift to you.” _Your gift from Illyrio, no doubt. The only thing you have is your name. And even that was given to you._ “Irri shall teach you how to ride, so no Dothraki can outpace you. Jhiqui will teach you the dothraki tongue, so none can slander you. And Doreah,” and Viserys laid his hands on her shoulders, “shall teach you how to bed.”

Jon did not miss the slight tense of discomfort that Doreah displayed. _Have you tasted her for yourself, Viserys?_

Then it was Ser Jorah that approached. Bundles in his hands were a stack of books, most of them worn and torn by use. Daenerys took them into her hands. “Histories and songs of the Seven Kingdoms, so the people themselves may teach you of them.”

The Princess took the books into her hands. Her fingers felt the eroded grooves in the leather, the frayed pages that stood out. “Thank you Ser. I will treasure them always.”

The Princess was given jeweled brooches from Qarth, glimmering rings from the Summer Isles, silk slippers from Yi Ti. A small pile of offerings rose up behind her and Khal Drogo. And Jon had none to give, save for a few kind words. “You are stronger than what they think,” is what he could say. But Jon didn’t truly believe it. “First chance you have, run,” but where would she go? Whenever he looked to Daenerys he saw Arya. He imagined Arya, being given gifts when she wanted to run away. He imagine Arya being sold to a slaver. He imagined Arya becoming trapped.

He imagined Arya in Illyrio Mopatis’ grip. Jon did not trust the man. How did the Magister become on such good terms with the Golden Company? That thought had been prickling at Jon for weeks now, and it would not fade away. Could Father have known something? Is _that_ why he sent Jon over the Narrow Sea? No, Jon decided. Father had no idea of the Targaryens in Pentos. Illyrio Mopatis was planning something, and it involved the Targaryens and the Golden Company.

The Magister wanted Jon in the legions of Bittersteel. But why? _Why?_ Whatever the cause, he wanted Jon away from Daenerys. He wanted Daenerys to be alone with Ser Jorah. Jon trusted that man less than the Magister. He was a craven and a tenderer in slaves. _I won’t be one of your cogs, Magister._

Jon rose from his seat and approach the raised earth. He bowed his knee before Daenerys. He could feel the glare of Viserys on him. He could feel the curious silence of the gathering on him. He drew out his sword and laid it on his hands. “Princess,” he said. “I have no luxuries to offer. I don’t have any exotic heirlooms from distant lands. I can only offer myself, as your sworn sword. I offer myself to House Targaryen. I would shield your back, and give up my life if needed. I would give you counsel, and defer to your judgement at all times.”

“Ser Jon-”

“He is no Ser,” Viserys spat with venom. “He is just a bastard of Winterfell.”

“Jon of Winterfell.” Her words came slowly. He could hear the tint of the Tyroshi accent on her. “I will only accept your service if you would permit me to call you Ser. In return, I,” and Daenerys took in a breath. Jon watched as she turned towards her brother. His violet eyes were seething. But then she turned towards him. She looked to him. “In return, I will always find a place for you at my table. And I will never have you do something that would bring you dishonor.” The words came rehearsed. The Princess was not speaking from the heart.

But there was some fire in those purple eyes. _You are using me to fight your brother_.

“I can accept those terms, My Lady.”

Then as Jon stood and sheathed his sword, Khal Drogo roared out a command. Hezzare went to the Khal and whispered into the man’s ear. The Khal looked at Jon with his dark eyes and muttered some words. “The Khal,” Hezzare said, “says that he will allow his wife her “sword guard”. However, he will not allow a man to protect his Khaleesi while being ignorant of the Dothraki. You will be given a teacher, an _ezzolat_. You shall be made subservient to him, until such a time that the Khal decides you have earned your way.”

“What if I refuse?”

“Then you will die. One does not refuse a Khal at his wedding feast.”

“I accept his terms then. Who is this man?”

“Me.” Jon turned and saw a Dothraki approach. Wrapped around his eyes were a thick cloth, a white eye painted across it. He was dressed in a white robe, with a crimson sash tied around his waist. If it impeded his movement, the man did not show it. He emerged from the crowd, and it seemed none of the Khalasar stood in his way. “And you are the Andal.” The man spoke the Common Tongue with a thick but manageable accent.

Then the man struck at him. Jon found himself spiraling to the ground, the hot pain coursing in his cheek.

Khal Drogo laughed and slapped at his knee. He spoke in his harsh tongue. “None has ever been able to escape No-Eyes’ slap,” explained Hezzare. “The Khal wonders how many bruises and broken bones you will suffer before No-Eyes is content.”

 _As many as is needed_. He rose to his feet amidst the laughs and hoots of the Khalasar.

“A fine gift,” Illyrio said as he looked at Jon, “to give one’s life.” For the slither of a moment Jon could see anger in the Magister’s eyes. But then he turned to Daenerys, and glee found its way to his voice. “But there are more gifts to be bestowed.” Illyrio clapped his hands and four servants arrived, towing a large cinder box. They laid it at Daenerys’ feet and opened it. Jon could not see what was in it, but he saw the light dance in her eyes.

Then she lifted something up. It was round, and it must have been heavy because she used two hands to cradle it. Black and red swirls raced across the smooth edge, and it was covered in scales. “Dragon eggs,” Illyrio explained. “The years have turned them to stone, but that has done nothing to mire their beauty.”

Jon saw water well up in her eyes. “Thank you, Magister. I shall treasure them.” Every word rang with truth. How could they not? Jon wondered how long she had been told she was the daughter of the dragon. But what proof did she have? Until now, as she cradled that dark egg in her arms. _Have you realized just now how low Viserys has sold you?_

Then the Khal rose from his seat and clapped his hands. It echoed across the festivities like thunder. At once every mouth became silent, and even the burning braziers seemed to have dimmed. Khal Drogo stepped down from the earthly steps, and in a rare display of husband courtesy, extended his hand and guided Daenerys.

Jon saw one of the Dothraki have clasped in his hands the leather reins of a white palfrey. Its mane was like silver. Jon wondered how many other steeds Khal Drogo had amongst its horde. But Jon saw the way the Dothraki looked at it, and Jon realized this gift was as rare as the Targaryens themselves. Daenerys took careful steps, and her eyes were wide cast in wonder.

“Silver for the silver of your hair,” spoke Hezzare. “This is the Khal’s gift for you.”

Daenerys’ fingers ran through the white mane of the steed. She stroked the horse’s long neck, and for the first time Jon saw no fear in her. Then Khal Drogo approached her, and he lifted her up with considerable ease. Like she was just a bottle of air to be shelved. She gripped the reins, and Jon saw as she struggled to find her place on the slim Dothraki saddle.

Daenerys fiddled with the reins. For a moment she did nothing. “What should I do?” she asked softly.

_Ride. As far and fast away as you can._

It was Ser Jorah that spoke. “Just ride. You need not go far.”

She bit at her lip. And then she gave the horse the slightest and most hesitant of nudges with her knee. The gray palfrey gaited with a silken grace, and the crowd parted ways to let her pass. The entirety of the Khalasar, of Pentos, her brother, Illyrio Mopatis, Khal Drogo, Jon and Ghost, were looking to her in silence.

But when Jon saw the glimpse of her purple eyes, he saw no fear in them. She smiled and kicked with her knees. The horse broke into a gallop, and the khalasar broke away to let her pass. Jon heard cheers admits the hoots and laughs. The mare was well trained; with just the slightest of nudges, the shortest of suggestions, it responded. No wonder they were the horse lords, if the Dothraki could breed such beasts. As she galloped through the fields, Jon looked to Khal Drogo. His dark and deep eyes were narrowed on her. His bronze hands were crossed against his chest. _Are you filled with pride at your wife? Indifference? What are you, Khal Drogo, beyond being a warlord and slaver?_

She raced back towards them, and in her way was a fire pit. Piles of cut meat were layered on top, and it was bolted deep into the earth. There would be no moving it. She whipped at the reins, and her smile became daring. The horse leapt over and above the brazier, the hoofs scattering the meat. Sparks and embers flew into the air, and for the briefest of moments, Daenerys Targaryen had wings of fire.

She pulled up to Hezzare. “Tell my husband he has given me the wind.”  There as a twitch of a smile on the Khal’s face as Hezzare translated the words. The Khal shouted out a command, and his men brought forth his fiery red stallion. Viserys made his way towards Daenerys, but Jon reached her first.

“Do not be afraid,” he said.

“I’m not.” Jon saw there was a hardness in her eyes. “I am the blood of the dragon. The dragon cannot be afraid.”

And then she rode off with her husband. She left behind Jon, the Khalasar, the grass steps and Pentos. The stars were just coming out as the darkness overcame the sliver of the sun.


	2. A Sea of Grass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Horde travels through the Dothraki Sea towards Vaes Sash. Jon begins his training, and Daenerys understands the truth of Viserys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can read this chapter with music on: http://www.chaosinferred.com/creative/asoiaf/dragons/2-a-sea-of-grass/
> 
> I think this is one of those chapters that really benefited from being written three months in advance. Plenty of new scenes were added that would have been sorely missing if I submitted each chapter as they were written.

**II**  
**A SEA OF GRASS**

 

**THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL**

 

“It is called the Dothraki Sea,” No-Eyes had motioned to Jon in his approach. The man was always clothed in his robes of white, stained with pats of dirt and grass. Jon wondered if the man wore anything else. Ghost was not with him, not since he had first heard Daenerys’ whimpers as Khal Drogo coupled with her in his tent. He had sent him to her.

She needed the direwolf more than he did.

As Jon looked out around him, he realized that the Dothraki was right. _This is a sea_. A flat land that stretched out for leagues ending, that reached out towards the horizon. It was all grass, swerving under the pull of the wind. It reminded him of his passage across the Narrow Sea. The rippling grass was like the waves of water as the _Ice Wife_ made its way. There were no mountains, no cities to disrupt the view.

It was an endless sea of grass, the green and yellow joined together.

Around him Jon could see the train of the Khalasar. Thousands of men, women and children, some slaves and some free. He harbored some disgust at how many of the children were allowed to run as naked as their nameday, and at how nonchalant the khalasar treated it. It was like a moving city, filled with the groaning of horses and excited chatter. Jon had been nearly trampled a half dozen times in the week after Lady Daenerys’ wedding.

He had sworn to protect her, but he had not seen her since the wedding. Perhaps Viserys had found some sway with Khal Drogo, but Jon often found himself in the company of some of the _khas_ of Daenerys. He had managed to get some names from them. The one with the bushy beard was Aggo, Jhogo was the one with the whip, and Rakharo was the one with the long braids of hair. Of the three, Jhogo was the one that Jon liked the most. He was quick to laugh, and although Jon understood none of what the Dothraki said, he got the sense that Jhogo tolerated him.

At least, he assumed so. The man always seemed to slap Jon on the back and smile. Aggo and Rakharo just seemed to glare and stare.

After three days, Jon found Jorah Mormont ride up to him. His gloved hands were clutched at the reins of his gray destrier, and the man looked at Jon with an impassive face. “You are still with us, bastard?”

“I’m still here, as are you. Kinslayer. Did you expect me to run away at the first sign of discomfort?”

If that irritated the man, Jorah Mormont gave no show of it. “Eddard Stark should be commended for one thing. He did not produce weak sons.”

Jon wanted to drag the man off from his horse and cave his face in. _He is sworn to House Targaryen – and that means Daenerys._ “I am still here. What of you? Don’t tell me you find purpose with Viserys.”

“Those reasons are my own, bastard. I could ask the same of you, but we both know the answer to that.” _All you have to do is ask. I’d tell you I am here because protecting Daenerys Targaryen is the right thing to do. But you want something from her brother. What do you want?_

Home had something to do with it, without question. But could Jorah be so foolish as to think that Viserys would be the one to bring him home? Viserys by himself would never return home. He was not Aegon the Conqueror, he was not Daeron the Young Dragon, nor was he Baelor Breakspear or Maekar. He was not even Daemon Blackfyre. He was Aegon the Unworthy and Maegor the Cruel. At least when Maester Luwin would teach about the old Targaryen kings, Jon could feel a hint of respect and fear.

At Viserys, Jon could only feel humiliation. _This is the accumulation of your line? You go from Aegon the Dragon to him?_ But with Daenerys…Jon sometimes felt he was half mad. He was the bastard of Eddard Stark. What business did he have swearing an oath to Daenerys Targaryen? _Have I forgotten what her father did to my family? What her brother did?_ But even beyond her bloodline, Daenerys was alone. He could not leave her with her brother and her husband.

As the days rolled by, Jon wondered what had become of No-Eyes. The man who was to teach him the ways of the Dothraki. But he never saw sight of the man in the white robe and blindfold. Jon began to wonder if he had been forgotten. It would make some things easier. Jon didn’t care to learn of the Dothraki. He had seen enough of the horselords of Essos. _I just need to fulfill my vow._

But then, before the sun had fully risen in the sky, No-Eyes had kicked Jon away and told him to follow.

“Why are you here?” he asked on the plains of the Dothraki Sea.

“I swore to protect Daenerys Targaryen.”

No-Eyes pointed a fat stick at Jon. “Wrong. You are not here to protect the Khaleesi. You are here to learn.”

“Until you are content.”

The man smiled. “This is true. Until I am content with you, Andal. That will not be for many moons. Drop your sword. You do not need it.”

Jon considered objecting, but he decided against it. He unbuckled the sheath and cast it onto the ground. “Where do we start?” Jon wondered what the man’s eyes looked like behind the blindfold. But then he recalled the scarring around his cheekbones that seemed to dig themselves upwards, beneath the cover of the cloth. _Did he have any eyes at all?_ This No-Eyes was all mystery. Jon never saw an arakh on him, his name was more of a title than anything, and he was the only Dothraki that comprehended the Common Tongue.

“With words. Why are you here?”

“You asked me that already.”

“Same words, different question. I do not mean why you are amongst the Khalasar. Why you are in Essos? You are an Andal far from your home. Why are you here?”

Jon sucked on his teeth. This Dothraki’s teachings were the demands laden by Khal Drogo. A protest would get him nowhere. “My father sent me here.” _Why?_ “So I can make a life for myself. Because I am a bastard.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Lord Stark is my father. And Lady Stark IS not my mother.”

Jon could feel No-Eyes glaring at him. “Those are not your words. But they echo with truth.” _Tyrion Lannister said such to me. He had more than a few words on what a bastard should do._ “Every Khalasar knows the presence of bastards. Sons of a khal that will not rise to be khalakka. But they ride with honor regardless. Again; why are you here?”

“My Lord Father sent me here.” Jon felt the irritation rise in his voice.

“Why did he do this thing, cast his own son across the world?”

“Because he was made Hand of the King, to Robert Baratheon.”

“The same man that made low the father of the Khaleesi. Is she not the daughter of your enemy?”

She was the daughter of the king that burnt his grandfather alive. The sister of the man that kidnapped his aunt. She was a woman sold to a man she did not know. She was alone in the world with a brother that treated her without a hint of honor. “That is all true.”

“You do not know yourself, Andal. You are a fractured mind, divided and lost. A divided mind will shatter stone and level cities with its ignorance.” No-Eyes unwound his arms, and tightened his fists. “The time for words is over. Come and learn.”

“Learn what?”

“Learn what a form that knows itself looks like.”

When night fell, Jon staggered to sleep covered in bruises and sporting a ripped lip. No-Eyes was like a wind, a flurry of fists and slaps. “You will not know what a true form is like, Andal,” No-Eyes had mocked as he made a fool out of him. “But when I am done with you, you will know yourself.” He did not moan or cry from his aches as he fell into the tall grasses. _I am Eddard Stark’s son. That means nothing to these Dothraki, but it means the world._ The aches were pulsing as he fell asleep.

He dreamt of Winterfell. He could almost see Robb, smiling and laughing, with the summer snow melting in his hair. Bran was climbing while Lady Stark was yelling for him to get down _now_ , or Mother help her there would be hells to pay. Sansa was screaming at Arya for staining her dress with a mud ball. Jon ruffled her hair, and she grinned when he called her little sister.

Then Jon felt a soft hand on him. “Hush, Jon Snow.” His head was pounding and his knuckles and fingers burned with an ache. He forced his eyes open and saw Doreah creeping over him. “A gift from the Khaleesi.” Behind his blurred vision Jon could see Doreah held a vial in her hands.

“She sent you?”

“No,” she smiled. “But it is a gift she would send if she could. Ointments and oils, for the bruises and cuts.” Jon did not protest as she pushed the vials into his hand. “If someone asks, they did not come from me. Would not want it known that the Khaleesi disobeyed her husband’s orders.”

“Where did you get those?”

“I know where to find such things,” she said. “They did not come from the Khaleesi, if that is your concern.”

“Why?” Jon groaned as he rose up.

“Because, Westerosi, my place is with the Khaleesi now. Not by my choice, but that is the way of it. If Daenerys Targaryen rises, so will I. I will be safe among these…” Jon watched as Doreah considered her words. Her golden hair flowed down her shoulder. “Dothraki. And if you are safe, then she will be happier for it. I am helping you, so that you can help me. Nurse your wounds, Jon Snow, and live.” Doreah glanced behind her. “Remember, I was not here. I was just fetching some waters for the Khaleesi’s bath. Was that not so?”

Jon thumbed the vial. “It was.” Then Doreah rose up and walked away from Jon, leaving him alone in the night.

 

**THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE**

 

By the end of the first week, Daenerys wished her life was at an end.

The Dothraki Sea stretched as far as she could see, long pass the tilt of the horizon. It was an endless plain of sweeping grass. It had a beauty to it, but it was marred by the Golden Horde. The followers of Khal Drogo marched, stomped and swept aside the blades of grass. The harsh grasslands cut against her sides, and her legs were made raw in the ride. She felt blisters grow along her calf and her bottom, making every gait painful. When it would turn to night and the Khalasar would make camp, it would take all of her handmaidens to help her down.

And in that night, Khal Drogo would come and mount her like a hound would take a bitch. She was thankful for that much, at least, because then she could stifle her cries against her feathered cushions. And after he filled her with his seed, her husband would snore softly, his bronze and scarred body laid against the pillows. But he often took her with such roughness that the aches kept her from gentle slumbers.

She was thankful that Jon Snow had sent Ghost to her. The white wolf had been her most constant companion. During the day, when they would stop to drink and eat, she would let her worn fingers coarse through his thick and soft coat. And in the night, she sometimes found herself burying her head in his fur.

_Tonight I will end it. I will bite through my tongue and put an end to all of it._

The thought had stirred in her many nights, but somehow she often deterred from it. Perhaps the aches filled her with too much pain to proceed unto death.

During the day she would see Jon, stumbling back into the train after his lessons with the man called No-Eyes. He would be covered in welts and bruises. She had wanted to send one of her handmaidens to tend to him, put some ointment on his abrasions. But she often thought better of it. _My husband has denied Jon’s service until he has been admitted, by this No-Eyes. I can’t circumvent him. He treats me harshly enough as is._

Perhaps his bruises were nothing compared to the wounds that brought Jon to the manse of Illyrio Mopatis, but Dany could not say that she ever heard Jon cry or complain of his hurts. Perhaps it was the Northern blood in him, that made him so strong and resilient. And Dany noticed that Jon did not limp as much as in the first days, that his steps were more certain, his look just a little bit more bold. _Jon Snow is, if nothing else, resilient._

It was the loneliness that cut the deepest, even more than the rawness in her calves or the sharp pain from her blisters. Viserys was rarely with her, even though he insisted that he ride with Khal Drogo. “To ensure the barbarian gives me what is owed,” is what he proclaimed despite Illyrio Mopatis’ protests. Ser Jorah Mormont rode with her, but often Viserys would pull him from her. The knight was all courtesies, calling her Khaleesi, and spoke with a gruff tone. There was no sense of true concern in his voice, but at least he was willing to speak with her. The only attention her husband gave her was when he came for her in the night. Until then he rode and roared with his advisors and bloodriders. He even gave his mother Virenni more attention than his own wife. Her handmaidens would speak in broken Common Tongue, except for Doreah who seemed to be fluent in all tongues but Dothraki. She often kept the fair haired Lyseni at her side.

Anything to have a companion, someone she could speak her mind to. But she was surrounded by the khalasar, by Khal Drogo’s Golden Horde. She feared telling It was massive and immense, but not without purpose. Dany was told by Hezzare that men from across Essos have been drawn to this khalasar. Merchants from Slaver’s Bay, academics and philosophers from across the Free Cities, mercenary bands hired by the plunder of Khal Drogo’s exploits. It had even attracted a servant of Asshai-of-the-Shadows.

“You think this is eccentric?” Hezzare had asked. “This collection of wanderers from Essos? Just wait until you behold your husband’s capital. Vaes Sash is the melting pot of the continent.”

She longed to see this fabled city. Whenever she spoke to another, the subject almost always changed to involve Khal Drogo’s city. It was created by his father, Khal Bharbo, from the ruins of Essaria. A dozen languages are spoken there. Although slavery is enforced there, there is a law for liberation. A slave can buy his freedom, if his master has found pride in his work. Such events are rare, and many freed slaves end up buying slaves themselves. “Such circles cannot be broken,” she had heard a Ghiscari say.

One night, before Khal Drogo emerged into his tent to claim her, her handmaidens were tending to Dany. Doreah had rolled out a copper bath and Irri brought forth buckets of steaming water. As Doreah oiled her skin and Irri rung out the silvers of her hair, Jhiqui set to her lessons.

“ _Athahakar_ ,” Jhiqui said with firmness. “It means pride, Khaleesi. It is the thick braid of a man’s hair.”

“Of my husband’s hair,” Daenerys said. Khal Drogo’s hair was so long and thick that it went down to his waist. She remembered when she unwove it after her wedding ceremony, before Khal Drogo took her for the first time. When he shook it loose, it was like a sea in the night. Jhiqui nodded. “I have heard some of the men speak of my…” she was about to call Khal Drogo her lord husband. _But he is not lordly to me in the bed. Jon’s father would never treat his Lady Wife as such._ “Speak of the Khal as a dragon, as a beast to be feared from one corner of the earth to the next.”

“No dragon,” Irri said. “All the dragons are dead. Terrible beasts. Brave men killed them. It is known.”

“It is known,” echoed Jhiqui.

Doreah rang a towel over a hot flame. “A trader from Qarth once told me that the dragons came from the moon.”

The wet strands of silver-gold hair tumbled across her eyes as she turned to Doreah. “The moon?”

Doreah opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment the flaps of the tent were swept aside. Ghost raised his head and bared his teeth. Quaithe stepped through. Her robe was stitched from the darkest silk Dany had ever seen, and gold jewelry hung from her neck. Dany saw no stretch of skin on her; except for the eyes behind that crimson mask, that danced like stars.

“I will speak with the Khaleesi,” the woman commanded. “Leave us.”

“I am not dressed.”

“Is your tongue bound to your rolls of silk? Must you be clothed to speak?”

“N-no,” Dany stuttered. She felt afraid.

“Leave us,” Quaithe ordered a final time. Her handmaidens left then, Irri muttering an apology as she left, her head cast low to avoid Quaithe’s gaze. “The Lyseni was speaking of an old legend from the Summer Isles. They believe the moon once had a sister, and when the lesser moon wandered to the sun it cracked. It breathed in the hot flame and out burst all of the dragons of the world. And so we came to know what it meant to burn.”

“Is it true?”

Quaithe shrugged. “It is a story. All stories are true, and all stories are false.” Quaithe stepped forth and brought her hands close to Ghost.

“No, My Lady, do not-”

But as soon as her gloved fingers graced Ghost’s nuzzle, the direwolf shut his mouth and approached the Asshai’i. Her fingers coursed through his fur. “Mysteries are drawn to mysteries, Valyrian.”

“Valyria is dead,” she uttered the words Viserys taught her. “It was consumed in the Doom.”

“And yet here you are. The silver-gold of your hair, the deep violet of your eyes. The dragon eggs you have hidden away in that chest. Valyria lives in you yet, Daenerys Stormborn.”

Valyria was the greatest empire the world had ever seen. From the Freeholds the Valyrians crushed the Lords of Ghis and set the world ablaze with intelligence and revolutions. Viserys had told her so, though not often as much as he would about the home that was taken from them.

“And here you are,” she said in her approach. “The last daughter of Old Valyria, bound to the Dothraki.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“I am stating a fact.” The only thing between her and Quaithe was the blaze of the fire. “The Westerosi told you to abandon your brother.”

“How do you know what Jon told me?” Quaithe ignored her. “Why are you here?”

“That was the wrong question. It is my intentions that should drive your curiosity. I will tell you. I wish to awaken the dragon.”

“Viserys told me that he is the dragon.” Despite the warmth of the bath she felt a chill race through her. “He told me that I have awakened his dragon many times.” She remembered the outbursts, the beatings, the threats of rekindling the union of brother and sister.

Quaithe laughed behind her mask. “Viserys is no dragon. He is a serpent lusting after what he will never have. You know the truth. Will Viserys ever bring you home?”

Dany looked into the eyes behind the mask. They were dancing in the flame. Viserys could not wield a sword. He did not know how to lead men. He was quick to cruelty, slow to inspire love and devotion. “No. Viserys will not bring me home.”

“And the chains loosen.” There was pride in the woman’s voice.

“What do you know of chains, of bondage? You are a woman free. Are there not slaves in Asshai?”

“What use do we Asshai’i have for slaves? There are no children, to be nurtured. There are no beasts, whose pelts need to be brushed and cleaned. It is the largest city in the world, so we need no laborers for expansion. What use do we for slaves, when we know the higher mysteries?” She reached into her long right sleeve with her left hand, and Quaithe tossed green dust into the fire. The flame became as dark as night. Dany looked into the black flame and became overwhelmed with fear. She crawled out of the bath, the shame of her nakedness forgotten.

“It is only sorcery, Daenerys Stormborn,” Quaithe said as Dany drew the towel to cover herself. “There is power in your blood. Do not fear of it.” Quaithe made to leave, but just as she was about to slip past the flaps of the tent, she turned. “Your husband will come again. As before, he will not be kind.”

She was not wrong. Khal Drogo took her as he always did, from behind, and with roughness. When he was done, he slept softly among the pillows and Dany felt sore all over. Still, sleep managed to come to her.

It came to her as it never did before. She was alone in darkness, for years it seemed. Then she saw the white fur of Ghost. She called to him, but the direwolf did not approach. He looked at her, and then turned and padded away. She chased after him, across the deep dark, and she came upon them. There was Ghost, and at his side was a wolf with eyes of gold and a wolf with a crimson pelt. And there was a lion with mismatched eyes, men that were covered in salt, and a goat that was as dark as night. And towering above them all was a dragon. It had scales as dark as night, and its eyes glowed like molten gold.

Then it breathed, and Dany was engulfed in fire. Her flesh and hair were burnt away, her fine clothes reduced to ashes. Then her soul was laid bare, and all her fears and weaknesses were on fire, and all that was bad of her were left behind, and then there was only _her_. Daenerys Stormborn was her name, born to the house of Targaryen, bred from the line of Aegon.

Only her very essence remained, until a cold wind blew onto her, and the frost gave shape to her face and her breasts and her feet and her legs and arms. She glowed through the ice.

When Dany awoke the next morning, she found her legs did not ache as much as they did before. The blisters of her bottom had burst, and the bruises along her legs had lost their ugly purple shades. She could wiggle her toes without feeling the sting of blisters rubbing against each other.

As the khalasar rode Dany summoned Jhogo to her. “Where is Jon the Andal and his Ezzolat?”

“No-Eyes is out on the field,” Jhogo said. “They are always out, away from the khalasar.”

“Show me,” she said, and Dany saw the flicker of doubt in the Dothraki’s eyes. “I am Khaleesi. In my Khal’s absence, I rule. Bring me to my sword arm. Bring me to the Andal.”

After that, there were no arguments. Jhogo led her from the bulk of the train and brought her to where Jon and No-Eyes were. She had him leave her.

“I cannot leave you, Khaleesi,” he whispered as she hunched among the tall grass. “Not when you are not safe.”

“I am safe. Ser Jon is my sworn sword, and No-Eyes is loyal to the Khalasar.”

Jhogo narrowed his eyes. “The Ezzolat is loyal, and not loyal.”

She grew tired of the argument. “Leave me, Jhogo.” The man chewed at his lips, and then marched away, taking one final look behind him before he vanished from view. She swept the grass away, peering through the space.

They were sitting across from each other. No-Eyes’ legs were crossed over each other, while Jon leaned against his knee. The Dothraki threw Jon a skin.

“Drink, Andal. The wine will dull the pain.” Wearily, Jon popped off the cap and raised the skin to his lips. Damy could have heard the chugging from miles away, Jon drank it down with such force. Dany could see a welt on Jon’s cheek, red and inflamed. “You have gotten sloppier. Your body is forgetting itself.”

“It would be easier if you didn’t beat me with every meeting.”

“The pains are a lesson, Andal.”

Dany was not convinced. Whatever No-Eyes meant to taught, it could have been done without covering Jon in bruises. “So what will you speak to me today, Ezzolat?”

“Why are you here, Andal?” Dany swore she saw the Dothraki smile.

Jon shook his head, amused. “To serve the Princess.” _How many times has he asked you that question?_

“And so long as I say so, you are kept from your wants. It is good to know that for once, the slave can become the slaver.”

“Slave?” Jon licked at his lips. “Where are your chains?”

“Andal”. And the Dothraki’s voice became grim. “Not all chains can be seen. You know this better than most.”

“I have no chains.”

“You have a weak soul, Andal. You give and you give. There is the push and the pull, the taking and the giving. That is the balance to the world, but you are not in balance. You give once, and you give again. And you refuse to take anything for yourself. What does Jon Snow the Andal want?”

She saw Jon fume at the question, his fingers feeling the balls of his knee.

“You have an overabundance of the Heavens in you Andal, and none of the Primals. None of the wants. A man that gives all to the herd is nothing.”  
“A man alone is nothing,” Jon said.

One-Eyes stood up then. “A man alone is _everything_. The fettered are the herd, and they have forgotten themselves. A people enchained have their knowledge ripped from them, so that they know nothing. They know only to serve, only to give.”

“And does the Khal not have slaves?” There was iron in Jon’s voice. “Does your master not make people forget themselves?”

“He does.” No-Eyes scowled at that, reluctant to admit the truth. “The Dothraki make people forget themselves. The world makes people forget themselves. There are always those in chains, and those that forge those chains.”

“But they can be one in the same.”

“Yes. Just like you. You do not know yourself. What do you want, Andal?”

“I want to serve.”

“No!” No-Eyes marched on Jon then. “What do you _want_ , Jon of the Andals? A man who only serves is a slave! What does Jon of Winterfell want? What are his desires, his wants, his lusts and ambitions? Know yourself Jon and speak!” And as No-Eyes spoke he wailed on Jon, his fists and slaps assaulting him. With every word came a crushing blow. Jon deflected them, rolled and ran from them, but No-Eyes kept his pursuit.

“What do you want!”

“I don’t want anything!” No-Eyes relented then. Jon climbed to his feet. He wiped away the blood that slipped from his nose. No-Eyes crossed his arms across his chest; he said nothing. “If I want anything, it is to protect her. I vowed to protect her.”

“At all costs? Even at the spend of your own life?”

“At any cost,” Jon said.

“There cannot be two skies. A man cannot live and cannot aspire for his death. If you wish to only protect the life of another, then let me tell you how to do it. You must _endure_.” The word hung in the air. “And in enduring, grow stronger.”

 

**A KNOWING MAN**

 

Vaes Sash rose out from the ruins of the dead. In his mind, No-Eyes could see the dried out remnants of the old city, Vaes Khadokh. They stretched out like bony fingers above the apartments and marketplaces the Golden Horde had built. He remembered the decree from Khal Bharbo. “Make this city of corpses alive, with gold and slaves.”

And he had made it so. Say one thing for Khal Bharbo, say that he made his dreams real.

It took them almost two weeks to make it back to Vaes Sash after Khal Drogo wedded his Targaryen bride. One part was because Khal Drogo was to mount his wife every night, as was custom. A Khal taking his marriage obligations seriously was not a man to be trifled with. But then there was the Andal.

“I do not trust this Andal, this Jon Snow. He is too far from home for me to trust him. Why is he here? What does he want? Why would he swear himself at my wife’s feet? Discover what he is, No Eyes. Root out the truth.”

No Eyes considered that an easy obligation, at the time. After all, none can hide their Primal and Heavenly urges for long, not from someone that can see the signs. Unless the man does not know himself, does not know what he truly wants from his life.

That was the problem with the Andal. Jon Snow did not know himself. He was bound by duty, but he desired freedom. He wished to follow, but had the charisma for leadership. Were all of the Rhaesh Andahli so blind? No Eyes had his suspicions. The few times he glanced at the other Andal, this Mormont, he felt unnerved.

And yet, he began to like this Jon Snow. He was as stubborn as a bloodrider, but he was open to learn. He would never match any who walked the Path from conception, but even after a week the man had a hint of knowledge. And he took to Dothraki almost as if he was born to it. The Andal was clumsy in his speech, but he began to understand the principles well enough.

Beyond all, Jon was curious. _I want to do good_. Those were his words. Did Jon what he was saying? Every man wanted to do good. But the question was ‘how’. How does one do good? A man could unite an empire, put thousands to the sword, clasp tens more under chains and fetters – and all in the name of making a better future. Khal Bharbo had said so a dozen times, and Khal Drogo had repeated those words.

The other reason the procession was so slow was because it was not just Dothraki. If Drogo’s khalasar was like any other, they would have ripped through the Dothraki Sea and reached Vaes Sash in a week’s span. But the Golden Horde was made up of Ghiscari philosophers, Qohorik spell singers, arithmetic sorcerers from Yi’Ti, and the sons and daughters of the Free Cities who bartered with the privileged of the khalasar. They did not know the means to ride with the speed and force of a Dothraki rider.

Drogo was leading the Dothraki on a path towards embracing the weird and strange ways of Essos. His ko had bickered and complained at how he was marrying an Andal. “Marry my sister,” Ko Jhaqo had offered. “She is beautiful, and will give you strong sons, and will bind my lineage to yours forever.” However, to that Drogo asked why that was not so already, and Jhaqo could only bow his head and apologize for his fool words.

That did little to stop his ko from asking why Daenerys Targaryen and not one of their sisters and daughters. The Dothraki were always lacking in ambition. Khal Bharbo and his son were an exception. “Remember your oaths to me, priest. Remember what you swore in your Knowing Temple. An oath sworn is deception is still an oath sworn.” No-Eyes would never forget. “See that my ambitions become true.” He wondered if that was another cruelty on Bharbo’s part – he would never see after what that Khal did to him.

As No-Eyes entered his temple, he rubbed at his scars. Before the New City was known as the City of the Dead, back when it was known as Essaria, this temple was a devotion to the Valyrian gods. Their names had been long forgotten, but their imagery was not. No-Eyes could feel their inscriptions on the walls. The head of dragons, with the bodies of men. No-Eyes wondered how fearsome they looked. His imagination was a wild thing; they would have blood seeping from their eyes, and their fingers caked in blood, with wild and incomprehensible voices.

The hairs of the carpets rose between his toes. When Khal Bharbo gave him this temple, the first thing he did was to fill all of the gaps and holes with carpets. Khal Drogo had offered more, to bring laborers and craftsmen to make it a true temple of Knowing, but No-Eyes had refused it.

He did not want any more gifts from those that bound him.

He heard someone else stepping on the rugs, the cling clanging of metal. The padding of a wolf’s steps. “Jon Snow.”

“I was told to find you here. Truth be told, when you told me that you had a temple, I expected something more than a ruin.”

“This is a city of ruins.”

He heard Jon chuckle. “Does Vaes Sash know itself?”

“You are beginning to understand.” No-Eyes could not deny the pulse of pride he felt. “The city is beginning to. But not yet. It is less a city than most, but it is greater than what it was. Vaes Sash is filled with life. And life, if nothing else, has opportunity.”

“Impressive, for a city of corpses.”

No-Eyes sniffed. “I can smell your Ghost. You are too dependent on that wolf, Andal, just as the Valyrians laid everything on their dragons.”

“The Targaryens united Westeros with their dragons.” No-Eyes could hear how prickled the Andal was.

“And now they are reduced to a simpleton and a weak girl.”

“Daenerys Targaryen is _not_ weak.” _And the truth is coming out_. “She survived her brother. She’ll survive the Khal.”

“The Khaleesi will need to show us her true colors, to prove your words true. Is it time to present yourself?”

“One of the Khal’s men –

“Bloodriders. Blood of his blood. One life shared by four.”

“One of those men then, they came. An old man, with crooked teeth and a scar across his face. He said where to find you, and that we were expected. Together.”

No-Eyes nodded. _Cohollo. The oldest of the Khal’s bloodriders, and the most honorable by far. I have never heard of him abusing any woman or slave that he owned, unlike Qotho. You could hear the screams of his women when he has his way with them._ “Then let us go, Jon. Shall you lead the way?” He smiled.

“I don’t know these streets.”

“But you will. So a blind man shall lead the ignorant. Follow.”

He knew these streets well. It had been almost thirty years since he had been brought here in chains, and even in darkness he knew the twisting paths of Vaes Sash. The unpaved roads had a certain texture to them. No-Eyes could feel it in his feet. Or he could smell the stank of the wine-sinks and the animal pits. If his eyes could water, they would surely have been drowned in his tears. And he always needed to keep his ears open wide, for children and stray pets loved to race and dash through his path. He would hear them before he felt them; every time, without fail.

Except for the wolf. Out on these streets, Jon’s Ghost was as silent as his namesake. _That beast does not belong in this world._ He heard the whine of horses and dogs as the direwolf walked past. The animals knew the truth. Why was this Andal so blind? _Or maybe he knows already._

But as one would reach Khal Drogo’s palace, the path changed. The streets of mud became roads of cobblestones, and the air became filled with the smell of sweet flowers. The blunt invitations of whores were replaced by the alluring sing-songs of the brothels. Then he heard the sound of flowing water, and the chirping of birds in their nests, and he knew they had approached the palace gate.

Before his eyes were gone, he had seen what Khal Bhorbo was making. It was nothing but heaps of wood and stone. But he had walked through the polished stone and passed under the archways since. He could hear the patrols of guards, and the chirps of birds from the gardens.

They came to a halt, and No-Eyes heard the clinking of ring mail as the guards parted ways. Maybe some of them bowed their heads in respect. He doubted it. Then there was the long moan as the red gates of the palace opened wide.

“You know what you must do?”

“I do,” Jon said.

“Then, for your sake, do it. Cast your pride, Andal. He will be the Khal of Khals, after all.”

They passed by the open gates, and No-Eyes could feel the heat of a dozen braziers that lit the path. Khal Bharbo insisted that the first chamber of the palace should be the throne, so that all guests would know the majesty of his works. No-Eyes had never seen the throne, but he imagined it fit the Khal’s hubris.

No-Eyes fell to his knees, and as he heard the rustling of Jon’s clothes, he knew the Andal was doing the same. And then they crawled on the carpet. He could feel the soft fur between his fingers. He crawled with a slow pace, so that he did not end up veering off to the side. It was always a long journey, to crawl before the Khal. His shoulders were aching by the time he felt the first steps to the throne.

“Rise,” ordered Khal Drogo in his iron tones. One-Eyes’ felt the pain in his knees as he did so.

“Hail, Khal of Khals,” greeted the Andal.

Drogo let out a low laugh. “Already the Andal knows his courtesies. You always were the best of teachers, priest.”

“I would hope so. I remember teaching a young khalakka the ways of the Knowing Path.”

“Your spiels of philosophy were almost as bad as the bruises you gave me.” No-Eyes heard the rustling of the fur pelts that decorated the throne as Drogo leaned forward. “So tell me, No Eyes. Is the Andal ready?”

“Say one thing of the Andals, say that they learn quickly. I have heard your wife has taken well to Dothraki?”

Khal Drogo grunted with approval. “She speaks it like she was born to it. Well, almost. She still speaks it too softly and sweetly, but she knows the words. Her mount responds as if they shared a womb together. And she had already set plans for dinners with my mother and the wives of my lords. Now, if only she didn’t weep so much when we bedded.”

“It will be easier,” spoke the Khalmai Virenni. “Once her womb is with child. Once she has given you a son. The horse blood will fill her heart with iron. That was the way with you father, Bharbo.”

“Perhaps my mother is right.” Drogo let out a heavy sigh. “This is why I have kept her from the Dosh Khaleen, and why I will burn away that flock of crones. Being a widow does not wither one’s tongue.”

“Or maybe you need someone to slap you when you are being daft and dumb.”

“Already I regret my words,” Drogo said with a laugh. “So the Andal has taken your lessons to heart, has he?” Drogo clapped his hands, and they were like thunder. “Then you, Jon the Andal, may go about with your vows. At last you can speak well enough.”

“Gratitude, Khal of Khals.”

“But I will not have you part with your ezzolat just yet, Andal.” Drogo laughed, and smiled no doubt. The Khal laughed as much as he would smile. “There is still much you can learn. You can attend to my wife, when the eyeless one is not attending to you. With that, I say we are done with all this pomp and ceremony. I can already hear the roar of the fires. Is my wife’s host settled?”

“Daenerys Targaryen and her brother arrived a half day past, along with the Andal Jorah Mormont,” spoke Hezzare. No-Eyes could hear the rustling of the Ghiscari’s jewelry.

“Her brother,” Drogo scowled as he made his way down the steps. His bare feet pushed against the furs. “I have never met a weaker excuse of a princeling. My weeping wife has more fires than him. And he expects me to put his soft ass on his throne of sword!”

“It is the gift he expects,” Virenni replied.

“But not the one he will earn. Maybe I can stall for time, and he’ll end up getting himself killed. My wife would be happier for it.”

_We would all be happier to hear less of that man’s bleating._

Within the hour they were gorging themselves in the Khal’s feast halls. His aches had melted away as he sat on a feather pillow, and he satiated his thirst with wine from the Free Cities. Drogo had boasted that he would fill his stomach with meal more appealing than horse meat, and he fulfilled that vow. Peppers filled with rice, spiced muttons, chicken baked in honey, and the ever delightful honeyed locusts. No-Eyes was led to sit next to the Khal.

“So speak to me of this Andal,” Drogo spoke softly as he crunched through a locust. “And speak true.”

“Drogo,” No-Eyes said, “I was true about his aptitude for knowledge.”

“And what about this sworn sword business? What is he? Has he made himself a blood rider to my wife? To a _khaleesi_?”

No-Eyes shook his head. “No, he is not a blood rider. Well, he is but he isn’t.”

“Speak sense, Priest, for once in your life.”

“Easier said than done, Khal. These Andals make as much sense as that woman from Asshai. What I can say is, Jon will protect your wife. At all costs. That much I could understand.”

Drogo sucked at a drip of honey on his lips. “So he can be trusted?” No-Eyes nodded. “I mean to put one of the Andals on my council. My empire will extend to all of Essos, by my will, and I would have some of those from Rhaesh Andahli as part of it. Maybe I will recruit this Golden Company I keep hearing about.”

“By your horse gods, don’t include the Khaleesi’s brother.”

“Gods man, I’m young, not a half-wit. Between this Jon Snow and Jorah Mormont, who would you prefer?”

“All I know of this Jorah is that he is old, and has travelled the land.”

“So he is experienced? Well travelled?”

No-Eyes thought on that. “Maybe. Or perhaps he has loyalties to no man. But I have a grasp on Jon Snow of Winterfell. He has a sense of honor, as queer as it is. And you would do well to have an outsider’s perspective.”

Khal Drogo tapped at his table. “Then it will be Jon Snow. I’ll send word on the morrow.”

“A wise decision, Khal of Khals. The Andal will have need of a horse.”

The Khal grunted in response. “The man can earn his own horse. I have given him the gift of a seat on my council. If I gave the man a horse, there will be talks that my weeping wife has too much sway over me.”

“As you say, Khal of Khals.”

Drogo waved him away. “Leave me and your formalities, Priest. I would have something to eat in peace.”

 

**THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE**

 

She was surrounded by the Dothraki Sea, and from atop the ridge it seemed that she could see across the world. Below her Dany could see Vaes Sass, the city born from tents and rubble. Her husband’s palace loomed over all of them. Ser Jorah Mormont had told her how Khal Bharbo had enslaved carpenters and engineers from across Essos to craft a palace for his children to rule from. In truth, the palace was only just as large as Illyrio’s manse, but to the Dothraki it may as well have been the Red Keep.

As Khaleesi she was also a ko, which meant she commanded a khas. “The khas are the ways a Khalasar is divided,” Ser Jorah told her. “Some are only a hundred riders, others numbers closer to a thousand.” Khal Drogo had gifted her with three hundred, and she was free to do with them as she wished. As soon as she made the call, they would gather from the city and follow her.

She loved the feeling of the wind in her hair. All her life Viserys had told her she was a princess, that she commanded respect. She didn’t command anything until Khal Drogo bought her. _As a slave, I have risen high_. As she rode Silver, she felt like she could command the world. The Dothraki did not give names to their horses; they were an unsympathetic people.

“But you are not Dothraki,” Jon Snow had told her one day amongst the plains outside the city. “We name our horses in Westeros.”

“Then she is Silver,” Dany had said. Her fingers had curled up into the filly’s mane. “For the color of our hair.”

Jon Snow did not have a horse to call his own. Whenever she summoned her khas, Jon would walk in strides behind her. She demanded a good pace be given so he could keep up. He was given a place among her husband’s council, and that was a honor. But to the Dothraki, to give a horse was something else entirely. Jon must earn his ride, or it must be given to him.

Dany had wondered what scenario she could conspire to give Jon his horse. All of her suggestions were shot down by her handmaidens.

The most noteworthy members of her khas were the riders Aggo, Jhogo and Rakharo. Irri had told Dany that Aggo was one of the most accomplished riders within the Golden Horde, able to hit twenty targets in a single gallop. Irri insisted that was very impressive for any Dothraki. She knew that Jhogo was one of the first to take to Jon Snow, that he often shared mare wine with the Northman despite Jon still learning the tongues of the Dothraki. Even if he wasn’t capable with the blade tipped whip, she would have included Jhogo amongst her khas for that reason alone. And then there was Rakharo, whom Irri and Jhiqui were very knowledgeable of. He was very capable with the arakh, but she suspected that her handmaidens had more carnal interests in mind.

And the least man of note was Viserys. He insisted on riding with Dany whenever she set out for the Dothraki Sea. “I will not risk anything until I have my army,” he had scowled.

Despite her brother’s tantrums and screams, Dany could not hate her rides. She found the Dothraki Sea beautiful. Ser Jorah had told her how the Dothraki believed that the ghost grass of Asshai’i would consume all the world. She could not believe how anything could outgrow the Sea. The green and yellow grass stretched out for miles, and in the months to come red and blue blades would grow. The Sea was a wild gallery of colors that stretched out to the horizon.

Ser Jorah always rode beside her. If Jon had a mount she would have him do the same. Ser Jorah and her brother had mounts of their own, although Viserys only rode his black mare because Magister Illyrio had gifted it to him. _In time, Jon will earn his horse. And I will be surrounded by my swords._ Despite the mistrust the two Northmen shared for each other, Dany enjoyed Jorah’s company. Jon had lived in the North for all his life, but Ser Jorah had traversed through many of the Kingdoms. He fought in the Usurper’s Rebellion and traveled as far as the red mountains of Dorne. He was part of the charge on Pyke when the Greyjoys rebelled against the Kingdoms. And after his exile, Ser Jorah learned of the many cultures of Essos.

And he had given her the books written by the maesters of the Citadel. She devoured the histories of the Blackfyre House. She wished that just one son of Daemon Blackfyre still lived, so she could inspire a true loyalty in the black dragons. Between them and the Golden Horde, Dany knew her kingdom could be secured. But Ser Barristan Selmy had killed Maelys Blackfyre on the Stepstones, and with that the Fifth Rebellion marked the end of that House.

“Tell me Ser Jorah,” she motioned as they rode in the Seas one day. “What do you know of my family?”

The knight considered it for a moment. “What has your brother told you? What do you wish to know?”

“Viserys has told me plenty.” If it were not for her brother, she would not have known who she was. As harshly as he treated her, he had always told Dany that she was a _princess_ , and in the darkest moments that meant all the world to her. If it were not for Viserys, she would not have known of her father, whose throne was stolen from him. “Tell me of my brother Rhaegar.” Viserys had much and little to say of him. The more that Viserys would tell of Prince Rhaegar, the less she understood of the man.

“I did not know him well, Khaleesi. It was said that few men did. Your brother Rhaegar was an enigma to many, perhaps even to himself.”

“Still Ser, I would hear you. My brother Viserys, his memories of my family are…” _Biased and clouded. The empty words of a cruel brother. The insistences of a man that sold me to Khal Drogo._ “His own,” she decided.

Ser Jorah slowed the trot of his horse. “Very well, Khaleesi. Even now, in the rule of Robert Baratheon, Rhaegar is called the Last Dragon.”

“Jon Snow said as such. Illyrio Mopatis insisted it was a sign of respect.”

“That depends on the circle, Khaleesi. But the Magister’s insistence in that regard is true. Rhaegar had a keen mind, and it was said he sang as much as he jousted and lanced. Many would have thought of Rhaegar as a just king.”

“And the Usurper killed him.” She could not hide the anger from her lips.

“Yes Khaleesi. The last dragon was killed on the trident. Your brother Viserys is few things, and a dragon is not any of them.”

“Then what am I?” She felt defiant then.

But Ser Jorah only smiled. “That remains to be seen, Khaleesi.”

As she looked down onto her husband’s palace, a soft fear crept over her. How would she capture the Seven Kingdoms? Her brother would never lead any armies. She had to admit that. So in the name of her family, it had to be her. But Dany knew about the Dance of the Dragons. The last time a woman tried to sit on the Iron Throne, the entire realm rejected her. What lords would raise their banners for her?

“Ser Jorah,” she said as she reeled Silver to face the man. “Send word to the khas to stop and wait for me.”

“For how long, Khaleesi?”

“For as long as I wish.” She needed time to think, away from her brother. Away from her husband and his touches. Away from the Dothraki that are both her best wish and greatest threat to the Iron Throne.

Ser Jorah bowed his head with respect. “You are speaking as a true khaleesi.”

“Not as a khaleesi,” she said as Silver gaited past. “As a queen.”

She had found a clearing, where the green and yellow of the grass sea were cleared. As Dany got off of Silver, she felt the dirt between her toes. She could hear the gentle whispers of a river, somewhere nearby. As she gently tugged on Silver’s reins and parted the grasses with her free hand, she let the sound lead her. It didn’t take long for to find the river. She knelt down, washed her face, and looked down.

Her forehead was crowned in a circlet of bronze coins, her neck covered in a necklace of beautiful beads. She was painted in the deep blue of the Dothraki, with soft blue lines going down the sides of her face and arms. Khal Drogo had aspirations of being a true emperor, and so he had her handmaidens dress her as such. She wore riding leathers, but back within the palace she would be garbed in silk and soft slippers.

From the moment she was told of her marriage, to this slice of time in the riverbed, three months had passed. She had changed so much since then, the girl in Illyrio’s manse was almost a stranger to her now. How much will she change by this time next year?

If the gods are good, she will be feeling Westerosi dirt in between her toes.

Then she heard the cracking of grass being stomped beneath hooves. She turned. Viserys emerged atop his black destrier, his eyes aflame. “You give commands to me?” He vaulted off of his horse and nearly toppled over. “To _me_?” As he approached her she nearly took a step back and fell into the river. Her brother grabbed her by the arm, and she felt a sharp pain. Moments ago she felt like a Khaleessi of the Golden Horde, but then she became a timid girl.

“I will _not_ take commands from the slut of some barbarian! Do you understand me, sister? I am the dragon! I will not be stopped by anyone, do you hear me?”

She heard him all too well, as his fingers dug into her skin.

She slapped him across the face.

He tumbled back, and his soft eyes went wide. In all their years, she had never defied him, never revolted against him. But for an instant his eyes went hard, and she knew that he would hurt her fiercely.

Then Viserys was brought to the ground as Jon held him by the cuffs of his neck.

“My Lady,” Jon said as he looked to her, not giving Viserys any attention despite his protests. “Are you hurt?”

“I am fine, Jon. Thank you.” In truth her arm ached, but the pain would die in time.

Then came Ser Jorah, Irri, and Jhoqo, emerging from the tall grass. “Jon the Andal,” Jhoqo had said as he laughed. “You must be part wolf. Only you could know the Khaleesi was in danger.”

“Khaleesi,” Irri said with worry. “Are you well?” Dany nodded and tried to sooth her handmaid.

“You should take off his ear,” Jhogo said as he descended from his horse. “To teach him respect, Khaleesi.” Viserys had gasped at that. Jon held him down as Viserys kicked and screamed.

“No, I will not harm him. He-”

“My Lady,” Jon cut her off. He had never done that before. “He needs to understand.” His gray eyes were looking into hers. She knew what went unsaid.

She motioned Jhoqo over to her. “Your belt.” She extended her hand and Jhoqo unfastened the belt of bronze coins. She felt the cold metal against her fingers. She tightened it around her fist. “Jon, keep him still.”

“Dany, what are-” Then the hard coins met the soft flesh of her brother’s face. His head kicked back after she punched him, and a deep gash was sliced across his cheek. His flesh was already reddening. After he brought himself to face her she punched him again, and this time his delicate lips were split open. Satisfied, she dropped the belt of coins at her feet.

Viserys’ eyes were open in shock, wet with pain. His breathing was short and pathetic. Was he always this weak? Was she always so afraid?

She lifted his face with her fingers, her nails cutting into his cheek. “Look at me, beloved brother.” She remembered the stories he would tell her at the bedside. “Ser Jon has taught me the ways a lordly brother should treat his lovely sisters. Tenderly, with respect and with grace. I shall teach you the same, by any means. If I must cut off your fingers, so you shall not strike me, I shall. If I must tear out your tongue, so you won’t defame me, I will. If I have to gorge out your eyes, so you won’t look at me with hatred, then so be it. Do you understand me, brother?”

Fear was etched into Viserys’ face. He did not nod, but Dany in her bones knew that Viserys understood.

She stood up. “Ser Jon, you are without a horse.”

“That is correct, My Lady.”

“Take my brother’s. His steed is as dark as your hair. It should suit you well. Perhaps learning to look at people from below will teach my brother the humility he desperately needs.”

As Viserys scampered to his feet, Dany realized the irony. For weeks she wanted to give Jon a horse, and Viserys ended up giving his instead. “Leave me,” she said. “I still wish to have my peace.” Viserys looked at her, an incredulous look across his face. Ser Jorah tugged at his arm. Viserys lashed out at the man, but he slowly left Dany alone. Jon turned to leave, the reins of the black destrier in his hands. He was looking into the horse’s eyes. “Not you Jon. I would have words.”

“My Lady?” He turned to face her.

“Tell me, how well are the Starks known for lying?”

There was confusion across his face. He did not understand the meaning of her question. “I’d imagine not. Lady Stark would root out any lies out in an instant. And my father, he-” Jon chewed on his lips. “I could never even think of the prospect of my Lord Father lying. Being dishonest. No, House Stark is known for its honesty, My Lady.”

She knew what she saw. The flash of pleasure as Dany punished Viserys. Her brother was cruel, but he was her brother still. She had to protect him from himself. And she could not do that if her own sworn sword took pleasure from Viserys’ misfortunes. “Did you not swear yourself to House Targaryen?”

“I swore my sword to you, My Lady.”

“I remember the words Jon. House Targaryen passed from your lips, did they not?”

Jon sighed. “They did.”

“Viserys is my brother. He is Targaryen, as hateful as he is. He is part of your oath as well, Ser. Hold yourself to them, or I will make sure you are not a part of my household. Do you understand me?”

There was shock on his face, for a brief moment. _Have I just became a princess in your eyes?_ Then he nodded. “I do. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” She wished she could say more, that she didn’t hate Jon for this. He was the first one to truly remind her of who she was. More than just an exile, but someone of worth. But she had to protect her brother, at all costs. “Now, I think it’s time to go home. I am sure my husband awaits me.” Ghost padded behind them as she left the river behind.

 

**THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL**

 

The honored guard had a tendency to summon Jon from his bedchambers. With roughness, he would add. There were no gentle knocks on the door, but instead a rough shaking at the shoulders. “Up, Andal,” they would growl behind their masks. And whenever Jon would mumble for the cause or reason, they would say “The Khal of Khals would speak with you,” or “Your ezzolat will have you for the day,” and on rarer occasions, “The Khaleesi had requested for you to dine with her.” But on this morning, they said “Hezzare has asked for you.”

“Hezzare?” Jon rose from his bed, the heaviness of sleep still wearing on him. “What does the Ghiscari want with me?” They gave no answer behind their bronze masks. Jon grumbled for them to give him time to dress.

They led him to a small chamber towards the heart of the palace. Jon could see swirls of smoke clawing from beneath the doorway. “Enter,” one of them demanded. “The Ghiscari’s smoke won’t kill you. Make you want to tear out your eyes, perhaps.”

Hezzare was bowed before stone idols of his grotesque gods, half-human creatures with wings and talons. “It is poor form to interrupt a man at prayer.” The Ghiscari kept his back turned, his hands cupped at his face as he kept his nose to the ground. Jon sniffed. The room was filled with the stench of incense. The sticks released a faint smoke into the air, and the clouds swirled at the ceiling.

“You sent your men to retrieve me,” Jon answered. “Did you expect me to drag my feet?”

The man raised his head. “Yes.” He sighed with frustration as he turned, one leg now crossed over the other. “I have read on you Starks of Winterfell, since Drogo made you a part of his council.”

 _I am not a Stark._ “And what did your books tell you of my family?”

“That you are enormously stubborn, and have a keen sense of loyalty. The Starks cultivated the style of guest rights that have spread across the Seven Kingdoms. And even though the Starks bent the knee to the Targaryens, you still rode off to bring them low.” _I didn’t ride off in the Rebellion. That was my father, who went to avenge his father and brother. My aunt Lyanna was taken by Rhaegar, and she died at his hands._ “Although, I have to say, my tomes didn’t mention how a Stark swore to serve the last of the Targaryens at the wedding feast to a Khal.” Hezzare smiled thinly. “I wonder what the histories will say to that?”

Jon was losing his patience. “I don’t care what they say of me when I am dust and bones. I am more interested in what they think of me now. Why am I here, Hezzare?”

“I thought it was because you swore to serve the Targaryens. Although why anyone would want to further the agenda of Viserys Targaryen is beyond me. That man inspires loyalty like a hot sun quenches thirst.”

“Who said anything about Viserys? Who said I serve House Targaryen?” Jon crossed his arms. “I promised to protect the Princess.”

“From her own husband even?” The man’s eyes were gibing. “That seems a poor way to keep one’s head.”

“It would be even poorer to invite such a man to his council.”

“Indeed. Part of the why we are speaking now.” Hezzare laid his hands on the balls of his knees. “I was hoping to discover the truth.”

“Of my intents?”

“Of what you desire,” Hezzare said. “I’m certain that priest has had a few sermons or three about the desires of one’s heart.”

 _You have a weak soul, Andal. You pull, and never push._ “I’ve heard a word or two from the man. I can speak for my Ezzolat. He is honest. Whereas with you, I always feel you always something hidden in your sleeve.”

“As I should. My brother Drogo is all arms and fury, there is no disputing of that. He has the form, the face of a conqueror. He looks the part of a man that all these warlords would shake their arakhs for and summon their mounts to ride with. But it takes more than an inspiring speech to create an empire. Taxes, logistics, diplomacy, supplies and resources, all these I bring to the man. Drogo is steel, but I am water. And water bends and curves; it takes shape in whatever cup it is poured into. You can’t have an empire without a few deceivers.”

Smoke had stung his eyes. Jon waved it away in irritation. “So you are that deceiver? How do I know every word you speak is true? Perhaps you are trying to fool me into some conspiracy, even now?”

“Even now?” A slither of a laugh escaped him. “Tell me Jon Snow of Winterfell, has your Lord Father ever lied?”

“No.” _My father was honorable. He held the peace. He would give the sentence and swing the sword. My father never lied._

“Then it is a wonder he managed to control the North for so long. Everyone lies, Jon Snow, to themselves and to those around him. The trick to ruling, is to hear so many lies that you can discern the truth from it.”

“And do you have a lie for me?” Jon crossed his arms against his chest.

“I do.” The way Hezzare spread his arms reminded Jon of Septa Mordane. “I am utterly perfect and without flaw. I am completely devoted to my brother. I do not have any desires that will earn me any gain. I want nothing.”

“I hope you are a better liar than that, Hezzare of Ghis. Even an idiot would know those words for false.”

“Yes”, Hezzare smiled. “But the question is how much? Tell me a lie, Jon.”

Jon sighed. “I am fat and dumb.”

“I said a whole lie Jon, not half of one.” Jon gave him a scorned look. “All right then,” he laughed, “something sincere. Make me believe. Pretend to be a mummer.”

“Pray tell you won’t dress me in motley.”

“Pray harder,” Hezzare said. “Lie to me, Jon Snow.”

“I think you are a good man, honest and true. I can trust you to make sure no harm comes to the Princess.”

“Oh, Jon Snow. I never realized I was such a good teacher.”

Jon smiled. “No-Eyes told me that teachers learn just as much as the students. I don’t think you summoned me here to have a lecture on what it means to lie. So, can we be honest with each other?’

Hezzare shook his head in disappoint. “Very well, Jon Snow. Just for you,” and he shook his finger, “I will be entirely honest. Just this once. You were never supposed to join my brother’s council. I’m not even allowed entry, and I am the man’s chosen brother.”

“But you still have his ear and his counsel. Before Drogo summons his ko and bloodriders, you speak with him first.”

Jon could see the pride in the man’s eyes. “Naturally. I have already had my sway on my brother long before Cohollo or the others ever get to flap their tongues. But even beyond the fact, that you are Dothraki and I am not, is that you are not trusted.”

Jon narrowed his eyes. “So, No-Eyes was not here to teach me. He was meant to push me away.”

“Oh, you are swift to see the worst in people. You learn quickly, Jon Snow. That was the intent, but things changed. From what Drogo said, it was your ezzolat that argued on your behalf.”

“And why would No-Eyes want me on the Khal’s council?”

Hezzare shrugged. “That is something I wondered myself. He could have put that other Andal-

“Jorah Mormont?” Jon could feel the anger rush into his voice. “The man is a slaver.”

“So he would fit in better than you. But Drogo sees something in you Jon, and I can’t quite picture it. No-Eyes argued on your behalf, but Drogo was the one that made the decision in the end. That’s the thing with khals – you can give them wise council, only to see them spit it back in your face and do something horrendously stupid.”

_It’s more about trusting me. Hezzare wants to know why Drogo gave me a place at his side._

“Jon Snow, why didn’t you enlist with the Golden Company? All this court life can’t agree with you.”

“I would not think you the man to be concerned with what agrees with me.”

Hezzare looked at Jon, his dark eyes narrowed. “Indulge me, Andal. Return the favor.”

Jon considered for a moment. _Everyone lies, but everyone speaks true as well._ “Someone needed to protect her. I knew it wouldn’t be Drogo. Jorah Mormont swore his sword to House Targaryen.”

“That would mean protecting the Khaleesi as well, surely?”

“The Kingsguard swore the same oath, but they never raised a hand to protect Queen Rhaelle from the Mad King.” Hezzare nodded. “And Viserys would only protect himself. Someone had to say that she was worth protecting. My Lord Father would have done the same.”

Hezzare frowned. “Even though he had ridden in vengeance against the Targaryens.”

“Because he had ridden against the Targaryens, he would want to help her. So I will do what I can. Because you seem to be forgetting something, Hezzare. I am a bastard. What I do is not a reflection of my father.”

Hezzare considered what he said. Then he leaned back and said, “Jon Snow, I think you are so very wrong on that count.”

Perhaps he was. Jon Snow would let the histories decide that, after he was reduced to dust and bone.

 

**THE BROTHER THAT WAS CHOSEN**

 

The slave followed in his trail, the papers cradled in his copper arms. Slave he may be, but the man was dressed in silk and velvets, copper keys and bronze coins dangling from his person. Hezzare wanted his slaves adorned so. It let others know just how high he was in Drogo’s eyes.

They made their way past the guards in their bronze beast masks, and found their way into the gardens. It did not take long to find Drogo. Even in his velvets and furs, the man was a beast. He easily stood out admits the bushes and trees. Khal Bharbo had envisioned the gardens to calm the Dothraki fury in his heirs. Some nonsense from a Lyseni pillow slave, no doubt. The Dothraki were the horselords, the barbaric death of civilization. No scented pillows would change that. The Khal was sipping from a bowl of mare wine.

“Brother,” Drogo motioned as the wine seeped from his beard. “It’s time to talk.”

“As always I serve.” Hezzare motioned the slave to follow. He found his place sitting across from Drogo, resting his back against some pillows. Drogo was cross legged among the soft grasses.

“Serve my ass,” Drogo growled. “You better yourself with every passing day.”

Hezzare forced a smile. “Should the brother that you chose not rise with you?” _The brother that came to you in chains._ With a wave of his fingers, Hezzare had the slave lay out the papers and letters before him. “Shall we deal with pleasantries or business?”

“Pleasantries,” Drogo said. “Should help me stomach you spieling on about taxes.”

“Those taxes,” Hezzare began, “are the bedrock to build your empire. Even the Valyrians built their dragon roads so that their tax collectors would have an easier time.” Hezzare licked his fingers and felt his way through the papers. “We have received tributes from a multitude of the Free Cities. Pentos, which should surprise no one. Two thousand bushels of wheat and barley. The tavern keepers will be pleased for certain. From Myr and Lys, comparable numbers in livestock.”

“No fear for Vaes Sash to die from hunger then.”

“Vaes Sash, or you?” Hezzare smiled. “Word has surely spread of your marriage to the Targaryen princess. No doubt these are all to be in your good graces, Drogo.”

“The dragon-riders are dead. Only my wife and her fool brother remain. The man screeches like a bitch. What reason for them to fear?” Drogo sucked the juices of a cherry from his thumb.

“The same reason you married her.” Hezzare crossed his fingers at his lap. “Because her name has value. Her blood has power.”

“Now if only her womb would quicken,” Drogo frowned. “Her weeping does none of us any favors. Every night I go to her, and she weeps. I can hear her stifle croes through the night. Her womb must be tighter than the Demon’s Road.”

Hezzare had to be honest with himself and admit Drogo had reason to be concern. By now it had been a moon and the Khaleesi had yet to be with child. The Dothraki spread themselves through the fires of war, and the sowing of their seed. And they were capable in both. It was said that for every man with dark eyes, half could find a horselord as an ancestor. If Drogo’s Khaleesi was not pregnant by the next moon, the Khalasar would talk. Talk of the possibility that Daenerys Targaryen will never bear a son for the Khal.

“I’m sure with your enthusiasm that will change. Now, Khal we do need to get to business.” The khal’s eyes narrowed. “Khal Orolo has defied you again. His Khalasar rides for the Qohor forests. The Qohoriks may be weak, but they are dutiful.”

“They were the first city to bend to my father.” Drogo plucked a cherry into his mouth. He bit right through the seed. “Orolo knows what this means.”

Drogo has no choice. He has to respond. His wife is still without child, and one of his allies is under siege by one of his most bitter of enemies. The Dosh Khaleen were always craftier than what Drogo and Khal Bharbo gave them credit for. For how many thousands of years did those widows rule the Dothraki?

“No doubt this is the work of those crones. Orolo has always sucked at their dried up tits.” Drogo was not wrong. Out of all the khals that held to the old ways, Orolo was the strongest. His Khalasar did not meet the forty thousand of Drogo’s, but numbers didn’t mean everything. Any fight would be bloody.

“If you win, and suffer too much, the other Khals will unite against you. This is a honey trap, Drogo.”

Drogo groaned in frustration. His arms were stretched across the seat. “And if I do not ride to meet him, they will unite against me regardless. It is _fear_ that keeps the khals in line. I wanted their deaths to be a slow one, as they watch as their brothers break their oaths to those crones and swear to me.” Drogo smiled. “But I suppose they want to die in fire. So be it.

“I will need all of my khas behind me. Have one of your slaves send word to my ko. Tomorrow, we plan for war.” Drogo rubbed at his lips. “Except for my weeping khaleesi. A khaleesi that can’t even give her Khalasar a prince have no place at a war table.” Even if she had the good fortune to be with child, she was not a Dothraki. Hezzare had been the son that Khal Bharbo had bought for almost his whole life. He had been nothing but loyal, and had well earned Drogo’s love. And that still did not buy him passage to Drogo’s table. This Daenerys Targaryen would never have her husband’s ear.

Drogo waved Hezzare away. “Off with you, tax collector. I want to enjoy my father’s garden for a little while longer.” The slave gathered the papers, and with a bow Hezzare left Drogo to his cherries and the smell of flowers. He made his way past the guards in their snarling masks and into his chambers. He dismissed his slave and closed the curtains. Only the thinnest trails of light embellished the room.

The chest was right where he had left it. It was where he had always left it; at the far side of the room. The cider groaned as he opened it and pulled out his treasure. Laid among the velvets was a slender slice of ribbon, stitched from a fine silk. He lifted it with respect. Hezzare could still smell the perfume from it, although he had it for years and years.

He could see her now, with brown skin and dark hair, and the most dazzling of eyes. There was a darkness in them, but a beauty as well. He had wept for so long when the light was put out forever. “My dearest sister,” he whispered. His fingers trailed the silk. He made a promise to her, as he cradled her cold body.

“Not much longer,” he promised to the ribbon. “All will be as it need be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratitude upon gratitude to my betas, who turned an acceptable piece of slog into something better.


	3. Khalakka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Khal Orolo threatening his dreams of a unified Dothraki, Khal Drogo leads the Golden Horde to war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can, at your leisure, and at my insistence, read this chapter on my site (and with music!)
> 
> http://www.chaosinferred.com/creative/asoiaf/dragons/3-khalakka/

**III**

**KHALAKKA**

**THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL**

 

From atop Shadow Jon could see the trajectory of his shot. The arrow had landed just above the mark. Jon pulled on the horse’s reins and rode towards No-Eyes, and Jon could already imagine the chagrin he would get. The man was cradling a bundle of arrows in his arm, and had held the same stance for the hour since this folly began. _The man is like stone._ No-Eyes had a disapproving frown on his face. His namesake be damned, the man knew Jon had missed the mark. He always knew. “I was off by an inch,” Jon said in his approach, his voice full of irritation.

“Off by an inch, off by a mile.” No-Eyes offered an arrow. Jon took it in his hand. “Again, Andal. Until you can hit the mark from the spot.”

Jon felt the feathers on the shaft. _A warrior fights with steel, not arrows._ He had been trained by Ser Rodrik for as long as he could hold a training sword. Jon knew the balance, the stances, how to disarm an opponent, how to read their steps. He was more capable than half of Father’s guard. Ser Rodrik did not hold back from giving praise when it was deserved.

But this nonsense of loosing arrows from horseback was something else. “Our time together is not at an end, Andal,” No-Eyes had said to him. Jon was roused from an early sleep by the guards in their masks, and was brought to No-Eyes’ ruined temple. “You may have found a place on the Khal’s council, but you truly don’t know the Dothraki. Not yet.”

That was the thirteenth arrow he had loosed at the target. Jon knew how to handle a bow. He made sure to, when he realized the best way to keep Theon Greyjoy’s mouth shut was by besting him at the one thing he was good at. But on the ground he could keep his feet planted, squint his eyes, focus his aim. Doing all this from the speeds and bumps of a horse was another thing entire.

“The best of riders can loose half a quiver in his retreat,” No-Eyes instructed. _I can ride, with a lance in my arm._ Robb was twice the lance that he ever was. The man was born to command from horseback. He was born to lead, to command from Winterfell. Jon was born to take nothing.

He should have considered himself fortunate, that No-Eyes was not teaching him with his fists. His welts were just about starting to heal. But at least he had an idea of what he should be doing. To fire from horse felt like absolute folly. _I should be glad that Greyjoy isn’t here to see this._ He could almost see Theon’s leer smile, and that gave a soft anger in Jon’s belly. “Taste the wind, recognize the bumps from the horse. Aim when ready.”

Jon fired. The arrow sliced through the air, the feathers being tugged by the speed. The arrow plunged into the outer circles of the target.

“An inch, or a mile?”

“A mile,” Jon said.

No-Eyes licked at his lips. “You are impatient. You expect to be great in all things, just because you excel at one.”

“That is not true-”

“Yes it is,” No-Eyes said with harshness. Jon was certain that if the man had eyes, they would be narrowed. “I can hear it with every hot breath you take. You know so little of yourself, Andal. Learn some patience. It will serve you well.” He extended another arrow to Jon. Jon took it in hand and rode out. He notched the arrow and loosed. The arrow sung through the air, as beautiful of a tune as Jon could make it, but it was still off the mark. “An inch or a mile?”

Jon sighed. “A mile.”

“I think this time, it was an inch. It was the closest mark, yes?”

Jon turned to the Dothraki. “How could you tell?”

“A man knows,” No-Eyes said with a smile.

It was midday when the Khal’s slaves arrived, bringing with them refreshments. “The Khal will not have any of his council lacking for food,” No-Eyes had explained. The chicken broth was refreshing, and the spices warmed his gut. Jon had even found the mare wine to be satisfying, for reasons he could not say. He had more than his share of it at the wedding, and it had a sour and twisted taste to it. But today he relished the flavor.

“You drink like you were born to it.” No-Eyes poured the wine into a bowl and sipped it with care. “Like you were half Dothraki yourself.”

Jon smiled. “Or perhaps I got used to it.”

No-Eyes shrugged. “There’s some truth to that. It took me some time before I could tolerate the mare wine myself.”

Jon brought the bowl of chicken broth to his lips. It was filled with spices, and just smelling them sent a rush through his nose. “And I thought dothraki babes were nursed from this wine.”

“Maybe,” One-Eyes said with humor. “I wouldn’t know. My mother was no Dothraki. My father most certainly was. One look and even you would know that, Andal. But my mother - she must have been Lhazareen. I knew the hills of Lhazar my entire life.”

“Until Khal Drogo?”

No-Eyes shook his head. “Until his father, Khal Bharbo.” He sighed. “And I - well, let’s just say, through my words, I had found myself bound to him. And to his son.”

Jon had heard of the Lhazareen. “They are lamb men. They bleat when you kill them,” Jhogo had said. He had brought Jon to one of the wine sinks of Vaes Sash - which was really just a big tent that overshadowed a tankard of wine and mead. The man always seemed to want to talk over a cup of wine or mead. “They know how to cook though, those lamb men. The best spiced muttons you can have, Andal. Just don’t tell anyone I said that. It is known that horse meat is what truly makes a man. Speaking of which, you’re looking thinner than usual. Doesn’t the Khal have some horse cuts for you to gnaw on?”

In the days that followed Drogo’s feast, Jhogo was a constant distraction. The man always seemed to find Jon in the odd moments between safeguarding Daenerys and when he would be hounded by No-Eyes. And always Jon found he had to accept the man’s invitation to drink with him, or to take some solace in his tent. The man loved to talk, but he listened whenever Jon spoke. At times Jon would forget that the man was Dothraki.

Then he would boast of all the men he had killed, or the women he had forced to his bed, and Jon had to remind himself. This man belongs to Khal Drogo. He thinks murder and rape is acceptable. But with another breath Jhogo would swear he’d cut off the hands of the man that would hurt any of his women, and Jon wouldn’t know what to think.

When Jon rode back to Vaes Sash, he didn’t even have the time to clean the dusts of travel off of his clothes. Jhogo held true to his talent of always finding Jon. The Dothraki rider was dressed in an open coat, and Jon could see the stitching of a horse insignia on it. “Andal,” he said. “Did the blind one thrash you again?”

Jon shook his head. He dismounted from Shadow. “No, my horse did enough of that. No-Eyes wouldn’t let me go until I had an inkling on how to shoot from the saddle.”

“And did you Andal? Did you master in a day what takes us mere mortals years to master?” Jon shot him a disparaging look. Jhogo wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “I guess not. Come Andal, let’s drink your sorrows away. I know just the tent to do it in.”

“Drink? You do know that the Khal has a big feast planned before we ride off?” It would have taken weeks for Father’s bannermen to answer any call for war, but Khal Drogo accomplished the same act in just a few days. All of Khal Drogo’s ko and his khas were settled nearly under his roof and the plains around Vaes Sash. Drogo would need to move fast; Jon was certain that if he delayed for too long, all of his Khalasar would drain the land dry.

Even Daenerys’ kaas would be marching, although she would remain behind in Vaes Sash. The kaas may have been a gift, but those men still swore themselves to Khal Drogo. Daenerys had no true power amongst the Dothraki.

And all this on the verge of a ceremony of some sort. “The Red Moon Harvest,” No-Eyes had said to Jon. Supposedly something to do with one of the Dothraki gods. Something about the birth of the first Khal from the hot tears of a goddess. Whatever the reason, the Dothraki saw it as an occasion for celebration. The Khal was just married, he is marching to war, and it is all being down so close to this Red Moon. It sounded like madness to Jon, but Vaes Sash was bursting with excitement. Little red dots were painted on every doorstep and tent flap. The Khal’s palace was adorned in crimson silk lanterns.

“This will be the end, you realize,” Jhogo said. He had dragged Jon to another tavern-hut, and once again Jon found himself sipping from a cup of mare-wine. Jhaogo placed his cup down on the dirt. “Once the Khal has Orolo’s head, the Dosh Khaleen will have no power. They will have nothing to stop the Khal from marching on Vaes Dothrak. All of the Dothraki, under one man, behind one voice. It seems like a dream. You will be telling your children about this, Andal, I promise.”

“Maybe,” Jon said. “He sounds like the man that united Westeros. Aegon the Conqueror. He brought fire and blood, but he also brought peace.”

Jhango smiled. “Sounds like a great man, a mighty khal indeed. Although I am certain Drogo could match him in a fight.”

“Jhango,” Jon said, “Aegon the Conqueror had dragons.” Jhaogo’s face darkened at that revelation. “Khal Drogo wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Well,” Jhango began softly, “maybe it is good this Khal Aegon is long dead then.” The man’s eyes brightened. “But wait, the Khaleesi is his descendant, right? Does she not have dragons?”

Jon shook his head. “She has three dragon eggs.” And those three eggs, despite their beauty, were just a promise. Jon wondered why Illyrio would give such gifts to Daenerys. Sometimes Jon thought they were a cruel mockery, but other times Jon imagined that they represented what Daenerys could achieve. Once he looked at the eggs, as they were lit by candles, and Jon could have sworn he saw a thousand tiny embers dance across jeweled scales. If they could react to just a candle flame, what if a great fire caught them?

“Eggs are not dragons, Jhogo. Otherwise, the dragonlords would still be ruling my home.” _The eggs are real. Dragons are a dream, a song that Daenerys could wish for._

“Eggs, like a chicken’s?” Jon shrugged. Jhogo gripped Jon’s shoulder, all smiles. “An egg can be hatched.”

“They are pieces of stone now.” Jon brushed Jhogo off from him. “All of the dragons are dead. Those eggs are just relics. Can you hatch a piece of rock?”

Jhogo frowned as he lifted his cup. “I suppose not, Jon the Andal.” Jhogo rubbed at his chin, his dark eyes squinting. “The Khaleesi, she is the last dragon, isn’t she? The last of the Khal Aegon’s children?” And she was beginning to act the part. Ever since she had struck her brother, Daenerys had become bolder, more confident and willing. It was almost like she was Dothraki herself. Her jewelries of fang and bone were more snug on her, she spoke down to the Khalasar with a mighty confidence, and she ordered the household of the palace with the confidence of a queen. Or, how Jon imagined how a queen would give demands. And Jon had to be honest; he sometimes wondered what it would be like to hold her, to feel her silvery gold hair brush against him, to feel the heat of her. To feel love from someone like that.

But she is a princess. Even in exile, she is higher than a bastard.

The stories had always told of the strange beauty of the Targaryens, and Daenerys certainly exemplified it. But the stories also told about the cost of the dragons. Summerhall burned when the last Aegon tried to return dragons to the world. The Second Blackfyre Rebellion ended in disgrace over some dragon eggs. Trying to hatch dragons would lead to nothing but disappointment.

Still, I would love to see a dragon. To see the world from above.

For some reason, Jon could only dream of home that night. Maybe it was the talk of dragons, of the man that made Westeros into seven kingdoms. It was the crypt that called to him, the cold wind of death that whispered his name. “Jon. Jon Snow. Whose son are you? Come.” And the crypt of Winterfell would open wide, like the mouth of a beast. He had dreamt the dream a hundred times, and it always ended just as he was about to enter the caverns beneath Winterfell. Even as a child, he’d wake in a freezing sweat.

But this one time, beneath the Essosi stars as he slept on the Dothraki Sea, he didn’t wake up. Instead, he stepped forth into the crypt. He walked past all of the dead Kings of Winter. All of the Starks were carved in stone, and those statues turned to face him. They looked at him with their eyes of stone, and they all spoke with their tongues of rock. “Snow”, they rumbled. “Snow and sand. And the fire.” Jon could not make sense of it, but he remembered the dread that pulled at him.

So he ran. He rushed past all of the winter kings, and they still spoke the same message.

Snow. Sand. Fire.

Then he came upon the only woman within the crypt. She was covered in a shroud, and a wolf was nestled at her side. “Brandon,” she said. “Brandon. Did he keep his promise?” Then she bled red tears, and her legs turned to crimson, and Jon woke up. Despite the Essosi heat, Jon could feel only the cold.

 

**THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE**

 

It was early in the morning when Drogo took his pleasure of her. A few swift strokes and he was done, although he gripped her arms so fiercely that he left a pink mark. As she rolled over onto her back and pulled the furs over her, she saw the Khal was already dressing himself in a fierce golden robe. His back was turned to her as the slaves dressed him in bones and gleaming rocks. “Perhaps the Red Moon will give you the child we both seek.”

“Not a son?” she said with a bite.

“At this point, I’ll take whatever confirms you can have any kind of child.” He turned to face her, so that one of the slaves could have an easier time lacing up his garments. He was be dressed in a robe lined with lion fur and leather leggings that trailed with the tufts of horsehair. It all looked rather beautiful, but to Dany he looked like no king. She enough of that from the stories Viserys would tell her on the bedroll. A king had silver hair and wore a crown of iron and steel, and rode dragons. Not horses.

Khal Drogo was a warlord of the east, and no amount of silk would change that.

“You intend to go to the markets today?”

“I do,” she said. She lifted her chin at him. “I want to see it.” The Red Moon Festival had drawn out travelers from across Essos to Vaes Sash. Merchants to sell their wares, mercenaries drawn to Khal Drogo’s declaration of war, wanderers that longed to the capitol of the new Dothraki. Dany could see from the terrace the bustling of her husband’s city of huts and tents.

Drogo left with only a grunt of approval. His slaves followed behind the tufts of horse hairs. Her handmaids arrived soon after. Irri washed her hair in sleek oils, while Doreah washed her feet and legs, wiping away Drogo’s dripping seed that lingered between her thighs. And as she was pampered and perfumed Jhiqui continued Dany’s throat exercises. “Harsher Khaleesi,” she said in the Dothraki tongue. “Your words are much too soft when you speak. Dothraki is spoken from the throat, not from your pretty lips.”

She insisted on being dressed simply for her visit to the markets. I will save my dresses and belts of coins for the Festival. She covered herself in the traditional vest of the Dothraki, and her handmaids retrieved soft slippers to cover her feet. “Tell me, is Jon with his teacher? This No-Eyes?”

“I do not know Khaleesi,” Jhiqui answered as she fitted the wool slippers onto her feet.

“Irri, find him before the blind one does. I would have Jon accompany us. And Doreah, do the same with Ser Jorah. The two knights sworn to my House have been avoiding each other for too long.” The two handamids left with a bow. It did not take long for them to find her knights: Jon and Ser Jorah arrived at nearly the same time, Ghost ever at his master’s side. He was the size of a dog when he first walked into Illyrio’s manse. Now, Dany imagined that if Ghost stood on hind legs he’d be equal to his master in height.

Ser Jorah was dressed in what appeared to be comfortable leather. It was unbuttoned from the collarbone upwards, leaving plenty of room for air to cool his neck. Jon, on the other hand, seemed to wear as little as necessary. Even in the cool morning heat Jon was sweltering. He wore a shirt that was buttoned only halfway, the collars spread far and wide from his neck. His black hair was disheveled across his sweat slicked face.

“We shall be going to the markets today,” Dany said. Before either had a chance to object she raised her hand. “I shall hear no objections on the matter. You two are sworn to my family. I do not care what Jon’s father did to force Ser Jorah into exile. That is behind us. You will both accompany my handmaidens and I to the markets.”

Jon shot Ser Jorah a discouraging look, and Ser Jorah turned to avoid his gaze, but they gave no objections.

She rode atop Silver into the markets, with Jon on his Shadow and Ser Jorah on his nameless mare. They were trailed by her haindmaidens and select warriors from her khas. She would have preferred to have just walked among the people, but she knew what she was. She was Khaleesi, and she had to be seen from a mounted horse. The people had to look up to her, not see her as an equal. As a girl, she would race through the bazaars of Braavos, Lys, and Volantis. She would see all of the strange oddities and exotic products up close. She almost longed for those days. But then she remembered how Viserys would handle her, the words he would sneer into her ear, the constant fear she held for the Usurper's knives.

She looked to Jon as they rode past the merchants in their stalls. His father put the Usurper on the throne. They betrayed their lord, set the stage for the Kingslayer to earn his name. Stark, Baratheon, Tully and Lannister, they were all the same. But Snow - it was Jon that spoke up for her. Dany remembered his words; _Is she not a princess of Dragonstone_? What was Jon Snow to her?

 _Why did you swear your sword to me, Jon?_ She should hate him, she knew. Jon was a traitor’s bastard. Even the most nobleborn of bastards were treacherous, and Jon was a traitor’s basyard. The Blackfyres set Westeros aflame for nearly a hundred years. But whenever she looked at Jon, she could only remember the man that sent his wolf to protect her in those early days on the grass sea. The man that asked for her permission to speak.

The man with hands like soft leather.

They would need to go through the Eastern Markets before they could make it to the Western half. Despite her husband’s insistence that Vaes Sash was a capitol, it was still a twisting maze of huts and dirt paths. And that often meant that it was easier to go around the city than attempt to cut straight through it.

The eastern markets were the realm of magic and strangeness. They rode past spellsingers, Yi Tish in their monkey tail hats, shadowbinders of Asshai who wore nothing but long dark robes that covered the entirety of their flesh, traders from Ib that auctioned ivory drinking horns and fertility charms, Qartheen spice sellers, and the tall and golden-eyed children of Lengii. All of her companions but Ser Jorah would take a moment to stare at these strange sights. Even Jon of Winterfell had taken a moment to glance at a bare-breasted woman who was covered in exotic tattoos, but kept her face hidden behind a leather mask.

Dany wondered what it said of her, that none of this was new to her. She had traveled across the Narrow Sea a dozen times, each passage being her brother’s prayer to keep them another day away from the Usurper. She had never travelled past the Dothraki Sea, but traders as far as Yi Ti would make their journeys to the Free Cities. She remembered how one kindly merchant gave her his monkey tailed hat. She had treasured it until Viserys cast it into the fire.

“This reminds me much of Vaes Dothrak, Princess,” Ser Jorah said. “You could go to the markets there and see strange sights, both frightening and beautiful.”

Jon turned to Ser Jorah. “Is that why this Khal Orolo marches on the Qohoriks? Because Drogo is sapping the lifeblood of the Dosh Khaleen?”

“Dothraki do not trade,” Irri said from behind. “None knew the worth of coin before the Khal of Khals.”

“It’s a matter of pride, boy.” Jorah was focused on Dany; he did not look at Jon. “It was a show of strength of how Vaes Dothrak attracted the whole of Essos. You’ve seen these Myrmen and Tyroshi grovel at the Dothraki, so they could reap in the wheel of trade that is found here. Vaes Dothrak was a center of trade in the continent. Now its not, and the Dosh Khaleen will not forget that. No Dothraki can ever show weakness.”

“Strength is everything,” said Rakharo behind his thick and dark beard. “A weak man is nothing. What can a weak man give that is worth anything? What can he take that is worthy?”

“It is known,” said Jhiqui in support.

“Then what is my husband’s translator, Hezzare of Ghis? He is no warrior, but Khal Drogo goes to him for guidance and advice. One is never far from the other.” Her Dothraki companions could not find a response.

Ser Jorah’s brown courser puffed as he rode up. “Strength is not measured in just arms, Khaleesi. A strong mind has worth as well.” Dany felt satisfied with that answer, but then some dread pulled at her. Then what of my brother? He will never handle a sword, and none will say that he has a cunning mind. How is a sister supposed to protect such a weak brother? Ser Jorah turned from her. “There will surely be some merchant captains. One of them may have arrived with letters from Illyrio Mopatis.”

“Then I will help you find him. The Eastern Markets are not far. Jhiqui-”

Ser Jorah raised up his hand. “That is not needed, Khaleesi. I can find this letter carrier on my own. Enjoy the Markets.” Then he rode off. Dany wondered why the knight would feel the need to be left to his own devices. Dany knew that many whores had travelled with the merchant caravans, attending to both merchants and their customers. She remembered how as a girl one had rosen her cheeks with makeups. “Now aren’t you a bright of silver to lighten up the day?” the sun haired whore had said. Perhaps Jorah meant to couple with one of them. If Jon was a hint to such things, Westerosi men were shy about it. Dany could not understand why – she had seen Essosi men brag about the pillow girls they had slept with.

The Eastern Market was dominated by the sons and daughters of the Free Cities. They walked past a Tyroshi armorer selling a bird shaped helmet, as well as a man with a blue beard showcasing his casks of peach brandy. A trader with a booming and thunderous voice was showcasing ringlets and brooches from Lannisport.

“Tell me, Jon, would your sisters wear such things?” Viserys had often told her that the Northerners wore nothing but pelt skins and moldy leathers. Dany knew such words false just by looking at Jon.

Jon frowned in thought. “My older sister, Sansa? Maybe. She loves the smell of perfume, but I don’t think I ever saw her wear any jewelry. Maybe when Lady Catelyn would dress her up for special occasions. But my younger sister, Arya?” Jon shook his head. “She’d rather die than be put in a dress.”

Dany thought that queer. Did not all ladies love to wear jewelry and silk dresses? “Why? Don’t all ladies like to look beautiful?”

Jon shrugged at that. “Arya doesn’t want to be a lady. She would love nothing more than to fight and wrestle with me and my brothers. I remember once, she went missing while we were out riding. Robb and I, we spent hours in the hills around Winterfell, trying to find her. Robb was convinced Lady Stark would turn Bolton and have me flayed if anything happened to her.” Jon laughed softly. “Well, turns out Robb would have no need to worry about that. We found her, in a bush of blueberries. She was so covered in the blue juices that you could hardly tell she was wearing anything at all.” As she smiled, Jon rubbed at the scar that circled around his neck.

Jon wouldn’t say it, but he missed home. He had a family back in Winterfell. A family that ripped mine from my home. If it weren’t for his Lord Father, that threw him halfway across the world, Dany could know what Westeros was like. _He would tell me of the cold of Wintefell, and I would be a Princess of the Red Keep_. And yet she couldn’t hate Jon as he mused.

They passed by a Lysene slaver showcasing some of his pleasure slaves. Jon had frowned at the sight, and she saw his grip tighten behind his back. Dany considered what to say, and the world answered with a delicious smell. “Sausages!” She turned to Jon. “Ser Jon, have you ever had a sausage before?” The taste was not new to Dany; after she and Viserys left the house with the red door, sausages were the closest thing to a delicacy Dany could taste. On the days when Viserys felt he could afford it, he would buy a sausage and share it with her. She loved the spicy aroma, the hot rush that went over your tongue, the sucking of the grease off of your fingers.

Jon smiled as he slowed Shadow’s trot. “Of course. Sausages are common in the north. It gets cold, even in summer, and pigs are everywhere. Ailken, the cook, would let the grill up for hours before he’d start to lay down the sausages. Says the coals needed time to warm up for the best flavor.”

That was all the motivation she needed. She dismounted from Silver, and holding the reins in one hand and pointing with the other, guided the others to the stall. The woman was grilling sausages and onions on a hot firestone. The wind blew the hot smell into her face. Just that alone was enough to make her remember the days as a wandering child, dashing through the bazaars of the world. Before he turned cruel, Viserys had sometimes joined her. She remembered how sweetly he would laugh. She insisted that they have some of the hot meat. Her handmaids loved the taste, pointing and grinning at each other. The men looked at the sausages with queer suspicion, before Jon encouraged Jhogo to eat. Once the whip wielder took a conservative bite, his eyes brightened and devoured the rest in short order.

“It tastes just as I remember,” Dany said after her first bite. Hot and juicy, she couldn’t keep the grease from running down her lips. She quickly wiped it away.

“They are made with pork, Khaleesi.” The gray haired woman did a quick bow of respect. “Just as I would in Pentos. I feared my pigs would not survive the grass sea, but they survived that journey. Just not my cleaver.” Some of the Dothraki laughed at the jape. Rakharo wolfed down his sausages, always asking for another. Aggo took that as a challenge, and before long the two Dothraki had devoured – and, at Dany’s demand, paid for - most of the woman’s stock. Their breaths were hot and dire by end of it.

Jon, on the other hand, took small nibbles from the sausage. He ended up giving most of it to Ghost, who wolfed it down in silent glee. “Did you not like it?” Dany asked.

“It’s not as I remember. Not back in Winterfell.” He frowned. “I think Ailken was right about the coals.”

Dany wondered what a coal-cooked sausage would taste like. She imagined it wouldn’t be nearly greasy enough for her. What was a sausage that wasn’t dripping with grease? As she turned she saw Quaithe, robbed in the deep black of her robes, staring. She slipped into the crooked alleyways between some huts. “Pardon me Jon,” she said as she went past.

“My Lady? Where are you -”

“I am going for some air,” she said softly. “I will be fine.” She made her way up to the alley. She found Quaithe standing amidst the straws and grass. Quaithe seemed to tower over all else. Dany had to remind herself that the shadowbinder was no taller than Jon.

“Are the markets to your pleasure, Stormborn?” Quaithe spoke with elegance. It was like every word danced from her unseen lips.

“It reminded me of my childhood,” Dany said meekly. _Why am I here? Why am I not with Jon and my khaas?_

Quaithe approached Dany. She left the shadows of the huts behind, but Quaithe still seemed to be cloaked in darkness. Dany took a step back. Quathe reached into her robed and extended to Dany a peach, plump and bristling. “It is only a peach, Princess. Not something for you to fear.”

Dany looked at it with apprehension. “And why would you give me a peach?”

She knew that she couldn’t see it, but Dany could have sworn that Quaithe was smiling behind her mask. “Sometimes, a gift is just a gift. Perhaps I saw you parched, and wished to provide nourishment?” Dany looked into the eyes behind the mask, and they were the one source of brightness in the dark. Quaithe laid the peach in her hands. My throat does feel dry. The air was hot and dry, and the sausage filled her tongue with spices. She bit into the peach, and it was so sweet that she almost wanted to cry. Dany did not think she had anything so wonderful in all her life.

But then the sweetness turned to warm, and for some reason she thought of Jon. She remembered the heat that rose in her when she first saw him. “Is she not a princess of Dragonstone?” he had said. He was in agony, he was hurting, any could see that. But this bastard was thinking only of her. She was both scared and excited then. Her brother had only served himself. Illyrio wanted to be elevated high in her brother’s kingdom. Khal Drogo wanted her to be his queen, for his pleasure. Jon had sworn to serve her.

She remembered his words on the grass sea, as No-Eyes demanded to know his wants and desires.

“What did you give me?” Dany felt something rush through her, something full of fear and excitement. For the first time, she longed for something beyond her own freedom. She thought of Jon, with his dark and long hair, the whiskers that grew at his side.

“I only gave you a peach,” Quathe said simply. “A sweet gift, is it not? Few things are as delicious, as sweet upon the tongue. Some say that peaches have a price for their delightful taste. They demand the truth of your heart.”

And for the first time since she arrived at Vaes Sash, Dany felt she did not know herself.

 

**A KNOWING MAN**

 

The night sky was cold and brisk, and it was filled with the throat songs. Singers took to their fiddles, and as their fingers plucked at the twin horsehair strings, their throats erupted into song. The voices were coarse and crass, and No-Eyes had to be honest and say it reflected the Dothraki perfectly. The Dothraki did not sing from the tongue, which was smooth and slender. Of course, they would use the throat. It was a mighty instrument.

Despite the name, the Red Moon Festival had no crimson moon to honor. If the stories were true, it was the Ruin of the Dragons that summoned the first and last red moon. They said that the first khal was born the day the last of the dragons were burnt. No-Eyes would consider himself glad to never see a red moon.

The festival was filed with noises. The throat singers were the loudest by far, and certainly the most appealing. But there was also the clamor of plates, the smacking of wooden cups in celebration, cheers and salutations, and quiet conversations that were not as soft as some would think. As No-Eyes lifted the bowl of mare-wine to his lips, he felt truly blind. Out in the world, in the streets, he could listen to the rustle of the wind, the sinking of footsteps into the earth, the feel of someone brushing against his shoulder. When his eyes were burnt out he began to learn just how powerful all his other senses were. He turned his name into a title.

The image of the scene was etched in his mind. He was here once, back from before his eyes were lost forever. It was the high table that he now rested upon, and it was a long and winding piece of furniture. It was placed upon a tall dirt slope, and from there the Khal of Khals could look down at his guests. At the center sat Khal Drogo and his Khaleesi, and his blood riders would be sat right next to them. Dothraki tradition had no place for the Khalmai - after all, once a Khal dies, his Khaleesi was supposed to join the Dosh Khaleen. There was no room for a mother of the khal in the Dothraki. But Khalmai Vearii sat to the left of her son, as Khal Drogo had long since declared war on that ancient tradition.

Or was she to the right? No-Eyes supposed it made little difference in the long run.

He wondered where the Andals would be sitting, Jon especially. The idea of a man swearing service to a Khaleesi specifically was alien. No-Eyes had certainly never heard of such a thing before. But Jon of Winterfell had done so nonetheless. Would he be sat next to Daenerys? But then where would any of the bloodriders sit? Qotho, the mad dog that he was, would never tolerate such a thing. He’d rage and howl that a Khaleesi’s servant had no place near the Khal. On the off hand, Khal Drogo did consider Qotho the least of all his bloodriders. Maybe Jon was seated next to the Khaleesi, Qotho’s protests be damned.

No-Eyes sipped at his wine, a smile on his face. Oh, how he wished he could have seen that sight. Qotho fuming in a pink fury, while Khal Drogo waved and dismissed his foolishness. Jon, I hope you are separating Qotho from his Khal.

But all this noise blinded him. No-Eyes considered that a weird sort of irony, that too much of one tool that gave him sight would make him blind again. Carefully, he placed the bowl of mare-wine back on the table. He heard the jingling of gold, and the swaying of the beads of crown. Is that the Khalmai? No-Eyes thought better of it. Vearii wore beads and bones and charms, not rubied brooches and golden bracelets. No, that was the Khaleesi.

And not far he could hear the rustling of fur. The Ghost. No-Eyes wondered where Jon the Andal was sitting. How far from the Khaleesi? He hoped not too close. No-Eyes was blind, but he could see the tones in his student’s voice, and the soft ways the Khaleesi spoke to him. Did the Andal not respect the wrath of Khals? You may find yourself in a permanent sleep, Jon. Tread carefully.

Then he heard the rustling of jewels and fine silk. “Hezzare,” No-Eyes said. He turned to his right but then he felt a nudge on his left shoulder.

“A valiant effort, my friend. You must hate such large gatherings. All these clamors, all these talks and interruptions, it must make your mind rattle. No wonder you prefer the silence of your ruined temple.”

No-Eyes frowned. “Friends, are we? Know that years have passed since we have shared a drink.”

He heard the passing of wine. “Then let us amend that. I have in my hand a glass full of Ghiscari Syrrah.”

“You hold onto your memories well, Hezzare of Ghis. How many of your jewels depict the Harpy gods of your homeland?” No-Eyes lifted the bowl of mare-wine to his lips. He sipped with care.

Hezzare slurped down his Ghiscari Syrrah, his lips sucking down the dark wine. The man drinks like a dog. He could have been heard a league away. No-Eyes drank his wine in quiet judgement. Hezzare’s jewelry rang as he drank.

Khal Drogo slapped at the table, the gold bracers around his wrists rattling. “Andal! Jon of Winterfell! Come to your Khal!”

No-Eyes heard the rustling of Jon’s clothes as he rose to his feet. No-Eyes could not hear Ghost, but he knew that the wolf was following his master. “How can I serve, Khal?” The Andal can speak the words, but only a fool would believe them sincere.

“With answers. You have been to feasts in your father’s home, yes?”

“I have,” Jon said. “Just the one that was held in honor of-“ Jon paused. What are you thinking? “In honor of Robert Baratheon.”

“This Khal Robert Baratheon. You saw him?”

“I did, Khal. My Lord Father always told me he was a ferocious warrior. The most fierce fighter the Seven Kingdoms had ever produced.”

“Was?”  The Khalmai’s tone was anything but convinced. “What happened to the man? Did he grow fat and useless?”

“As a matter of fact, he did. The man’s belly was larger than his head. But the man’s voice could still boom like thunder. I could hear his voice down the Feast Hall.”

“Down the hall?” The voice of Viserys was full of mockery. No-Eyes wondered just how wide the man’s grin was. He wondered how shiny his teeth were, and what they would look like if he tore them out. “Was the bastard not seated with his true brothers and sisters?”  No-Eyes’ fingers tightened into a fist.

A silence fell on the table. Even the throat songs began to die down. No-Eyes could taste the glee in Viserys. He drowned it with some mare wine. “I was not,” the Andal said. “Lady Stark did not want a bastard seated next to royalty.”

“The only royalty you have ever seen,” Viserys said with grit, “is myself and my sister.”

“Keep your mouth silent, princeling, or you will be remembered who is the Khal and whom is the beggar.” Drogo spoke with the iron tones that was instilled with his station. No-Eyes heard Viserys lean back into his chair. “Jon of Winterfell, among whom do you sit now?”

“Besides Daenerys of House Targaryen, Khal.”

“Is she not royalty to the Dothraki? Will she not give birth to princes and princesses to my empire?”

“She may, Khal. That depends on when you make your empire.”

Drogo was silent for a moment. Then he tilted his head back and let out a roar of a laugh. “Insults and truth in equal measure! Tell me, Andal. Compared to this Khaleesi Stark, who has treated you better? More fairly?”

“Lady Stark did not let me eat with my family,” Jon said, reluctance in his voice. “You have seated me next to the Princess, close to your blood riders, seated above your guests. Compared in this regard, you have treated me better by far. Khal.”

No-Eyes heard the rattling of Drogo’s golden bracelets and the shaking of his cup. “So I have. I have treated you better than your own family. Let’s see my generosity rewarded in the weeks to come. Enjoy the rest of my festival. And Princeling – keep your tongue silenced, or I shall have it done for you. You are a guest in my house by my allowance. Do not forget that.”

The Khal returned to his feast; No-Eyes could hear the crunching of the boiled shell of an ostrich egg. “I never thought it would get this far,” Hezzare said. He felt the son of Ghis lean closer to him. The man was reeking in perfumes. “You were supposed to break him,” Hezzare said softly. “Chase him away, make him never want anything to do with the Khaleesi.”

“I know what the Khal asked of me. But that Andal does not break. He bends, but he will not break. Say one thing of this Jon Snow, say he has resolve.”

“Unlike his teacher,” Hezzare said. He could feel the soft man’s glare. “Perhaps if you were a harder man…well, maybe you wouldn’t be here.”

“What do you know of resolve, Ghiscari? You don’t even know yourself. You are still fettered, even if you don’t see it.”

Hezzare laughed. “Oh, but I know I am chained, Eyeless One. My memories cling to me.”

 

**THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE**

The air was hot and heavy when the fat slave arrived. The jeweled collar around his neck jiggled as he bowed his head. “Khaleesi, the Khalmai invites you to feast with her in the gardens.”

For a moment Dany considered rejecting the invitation. “Tell my good-mother I will join her at midday.” _I can’t make an enemy out of everyone I meet, especially not the mother of my husband._ Daenerys wondered what she would wear – what would Dothraki royalty wear? Somedays she wondered what her mother wore to her father’s court. Viserys would tell her that she wore jeweled brooches and armlets of silver, but Dany had never seen any of those treasures. She only knew of their mother’s crown, which Viserys had sold just a few years after they were forced from their house in Braavos.

Irri suggested she wear the silver dress gifted to her from the Yi’Ti diplomat, Jhoqan Laxhiem, and Dany thought it a splendid idea. The dress sparkled as Irri and Jhiqui fit the straps around her waist. For a few moments Dany thought it would be so loose that her breasts would slip free, but once Irri fastened the last of the straps behind her, the dress seemed to snug into her like it was a second skin. Jhiqui gave her ankles bracelets of bronze coins that sang as she walked, and around her neck Doreah latched a golden roc with glimmering jewels.

The gardens of the palace had a sweet smell to it. Dany saw golden roses, sweet-petals growing from the ground, vines of mangosteens, and rows of cashew trees. The Dothraki Sea was green and brown and red, but the gardens of Khal Drogo’s palace were every color Dany could imagine – and more than a few that she had seen for the first time. She heard the quacking from ducks that floated in the pool.

The Khalmai was waiting for Daenerys beneath the shadow of a grove. She was surrounded by slaves fanning her with peacock feathers, and her table were laid bowls of cheese and berries, nuts and apricots, slices of succulent fruits and locusts drenched in honey and spices. “So this is the Khaleesi my son has married.”

Daenerys remembered her courtesies. “Honored mother, it is an honor to see you.”

Veranii did not look convinced. “I was Khalmai for nearly forty years. It is not great honor, I promise you. The Khal fills your belly with children, and when he’s not doing that you are expected to fill your belly with seeds and fruits. Take a seat child, before these locusts spring back to life and buzz away.” She nimbly grabbed a locust and plucked it into her mouth.

Dany laid against of the cushions. She just as much sat on it as she did sink into it, the softness wrapping around her elbows. She looked at the locusts, drizzling with honey. Illyrio Mopatis had eaten the delicacy a thousand times, but Dany could never stomach it. “Is it not to your liking, daughter?”

“Well, Mother, I am sure it is very-“

“Detestable? Scourges the appetite? No need to lie to me child. I had to grow used to it. My husband was invited to Mereen once. I’m sure to appease him with gifts and trinkets so that he wouldn’t commit a raid on those puffed-up oafs. He came back with a barrel of these locusts, and he was absolutely captivated with them.” The Khalmai crunched through a locust. “One does begin to appreciate it. After digesting them a thousand times.”

Dany grabbed a slice of a bright orange fruit, dripping with its juices. She bit into it, and she tasted a rush of sweetness. “Delicious,” she whispered.

“I would hope so. Bharbo brought in seeds and plants from all over for this garden of his. Wanted to give me a garden that I would find pleasure him.” She made a hrmphing sound. “The only pleasurable thing about this garden is leaving it. I’ve hosted more ambassadors and dignitaries in this place then I have wrinkles. And after the fourth time, I grew tired of this place. Now I am absolutely miserable whenever I set foot here.”

“Then why are we here? We could have dined within the walls of the palace.”

“And deal with that unbearable heat? I think not. I much prefer misery over having my flesh melt off these bones. And while we speak on misery – how goes the creation of my grandchild?”

Dany nearly choked on the fruit. “Well, my husband is very-“

Veranii rolled her eyes. “A brute? Cruel? Unloving? I know my son, daughter. I may have pushed him out into the world, but Drogo is his father’s son. There is hardly a gentle bone in that one, and those are all reserved for me. To think he would destroy the Dosh Khaleen just for my sake.”

“Your son must love you a great deal.”

“I sure hope so. He nearly sucked my life away while he was just a babe. Even then, Drogo’s appetite was ravenous.” The Khalmai considered the bowls before. “Tell me, which is the lesser evil? Terrible digestion, or locust wings stuck between my teeth for hours?” Dany struggled with an answer. “Digestion it will be.” She plucked a pale slice of fruit and ripped into it. “At least then I know I can get the damn thing out.

“I have seen so much food here, so many people from so many places. It’s like the entire word resides within Vaes Sash.”

“That’s what happens when you don’t make price of entry a religious toll to a circle of crones.” Veranii peeled away at the fruit. “Freed men, slavers, merchants from the Free Cities, spell singers from Yi Ti, my Drogo has welcomed all of them. Just so long as they pay their taxes. Which is fine by me,” she mused. “Keeps my belly full of wine and delicacies. Bharbo filled me with Drogo, the least my son can do is give me sweets to devour until I burst.”

“I’m certain you will not perish for many years, Mother.” A slave came by to fill her glass with dark wine from the Summer Isles.

“Oh, don’t play sweetness with me, Daenerys Targaryen. We both know you are enjoying this conversation just as you would a rusted pike being thrusted down your pretty mouth.” The Khalmai wiped away her wrinkled lips. “So let’s change the subject to something you do find comfort in. Your brother.”

She had to struggle to avoid choking on the wine. “Viserys?”

“Does he have another name? I always thought to name the Ballless Prince, but it wouldn’t do to mock the brother of my daughter.”

“Why would you need to speak of him? Has Viserys upset you in some way, Honored Mother?”

“His very demeanor upsets me, child. A man shouldn’t moan on as does, like a cow that has been speared. I am half surprised that he has lived this along in your company.”

She thought of Jon Snow. “Do you think one of my charges mean to end him? _For my sake?_

“No, I thought you would have ended his life by now. As Khaleesi, you would be well within those rights. I should commend you. You have tremendous fortitude to tolerate that one’s company. My son would not have been so patient.”

“He is my brother. Would you have me slip a knife in his throat as he slept?”

“Your words scorn, but your eyes are wistful. I know that man who made that fool display at your wedding wishes you would give the order.”

“I know the heart of my sworn sword.” _Do not marry this Khal Drogo._ Jon Snow only wanted to keep her safe. She had to keep Jon in line. She could not others suspect that Daenerys Targaryen was a kinslayer. Even by proxy, that would damn her return to Westeros.

Veranii did not look convinced. “You know this Jon Snow of Winterfell? Truly? Just as you know the desires of your brother? The Mewling Prince?”

“Viserys kept me safe.” _Why do I defend him? He twisted my hair and said barely a pleasant thing to me._ “As we fled from the Usurper, he found safe havens for us. He tried to organize an invasion to bring us home. He wants to be king.” _And does not deserve the crown. I know it. The crown should be on my head._

“And failed utterly and completely at every attempt. That’s why he allowed my son to buy you. As if my Drogo would ever give that one an army.”

“The Khal won’t bring me home?” She thought of the mountains of the Vale, the golden fields that surrounded Highgarden, and the vastness of the North. “The Khal won’t march on Westeros?”

Veranii shrugged as she sipped on water. “Why would he? If you were in his shoes, would you invest so much gold and resources into such a dangerous venture? My son is bold, but he is not stupid. He would rather create a new empire at home, then attempt one abroad.”

“The Aegon that created the Seven Kingdoms was bold. He sailed from Dragonstone with his dragons.”

Veranii smiled. “And where are your dragons? Bones in the dirt, girl, and the same should be of your aspirations of returning home. Be content here. Give my son some sons of his own, and you’ll be happier for it. And by the Great Stallion, stop weeping when my son beds you. You keep me up til the darkest hours of the night.”

Later, when Daenerys returned to her chambers, Doreah asked how her visit with the Khalmai went. “The next time my Honored Mother asks to dine with me in the gardens, delay her.”

“But Khaleesi, she is the Khalmai. How long are we supposed to delay her for?” Irri shared a concerned look with Jhiqui.

Dany nearly tore her roc off. “Until she withers and dies.”

 

**THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL**

 

The forests of Qohor were as bright as gold, and grew taller than houses. Some of the trees would loom above the Great Keep of Winterfell. Jon was half convinced that a snark or gumpkin would jump from the green bushes at any moment. He saw birds, with tail feathers as long as his arm, fly from tree to tree. The Khalasar grumbled around him. The Dothraki were impatient when blood was in the air. Every minute did not last nearly long enough for Jon.

He felt the dragon ring rub against his chest. The day before the march, the Princess had summoned him to join her in the gardens. “I have been told that ladies of Westeros grant knights and commanders favors, so to encourage them in danger. This ring was a gift from Illyrio.”

Jon had thought of Khal Drogo. “I cannot accept that, My Lady.”

“You can and you will, Ser Jon.” Her warm fingers pressed the ring into his palm. “Your Princess demands it.”

Jon looked into the distance. Ghost was off in woods somewhere, hunting and speeding beneath the golden weaves and crimson bushes. Out of sight, but not out of Jon’s mind. He was always close; Jon could feel it in his bones. If Jon closed his eyes he could almost see Ghost, hear the crunching of leaves and twigs beneath his paws. Ghost would hunt in the day, but by night he would return. Ghost always returned to Jon. “I am a damn fool,” Jon said softly. He was half-way certain that Ghost heard him then, his ears twitching at the sound of his voice.

They had left two days after the Festival, and the people of Vaes Sash raised a commotion. Jon could taste it in the air: something was going to change. Khal Orolo was the last bulwark of the Old Dothraki. If his Khalasar should fall, then the Dothraki would be well and truly united. Jon wondered what that meant for Essos. He had done some reading on the history of the continent as he healed in Illyrio’s manse, and nothing about the Dothraki gave him calm. The Dothraki had always seemed a threat, but the best thing that could be said of them was that there was no unity. But if there was a victory for Khal Drogo…that would change.

And what of Westeros? Would he sail with them, not on a merchant cog, but under the flag of a black horse on a red field? It was said that the Dothraki feared the sea, because their horses could not drink from it. But the same thing was said about their division, and Khal Drogo was riding to change that. _I am riding to help Drogo unite the Dothraki. I am helping Khal Drogo to create his empire_. An empire, he knew, that could very well bring doom to Westeros.

 _Perhaps this campaign will end in failure._ _Maybe Khal Drogo will perish on the field._ The man had raised a glass to him. Jon remembered how shining the man’s dark eyes were at the Festival. He had seated Jon amongst his family and advisors, and Jon was hoping for the man’s downfall.

But then he remembered the cries of the Princess, and all guilt was washed from him. He felt the dragon ring scratch against his chest.

It was a hard ride. The Dothraki were relentless in how long they would stay on horseback. Jon was not used to it; by every day’s end, his thighs where chafed and raw. He would soak his legs in the riverbeds for hours, letting the cold water get soaked into his sore flesh. But Jon never once complained. He saw the looks the Khalasar gave him, the sideward glances. Jon would be damned if he gave any of the Dothraki any satisfaction.

So, he kept his ills silent, save for his moans of relief at the end of every night.

On the second night, Jhogo found him as he soaked his legs in the river. “A bit late for a bath, Andal.”

“It’s no bath,” Jon groaned. “Just allowing my pains to melt away.”

Jhogo chuckled as he sat close. “I thought you Andals were riders? That you were all knights?”

“Knights?” Jon asked. “Not everyone is a knight. But that doesn’t mean we are all half-horses like you Dothraki. I’ve seen mothers hold their babes in the saddles.” Jon could hear in the distance the faded tones of a throat singer as he began to sing.

“The Khaleesi will want to return home, I would think. She will want the Khal to send us against your knights. Jon Snow, how would we fair?”

Jon considered that for a moment. He had never seen a true Southron knight in action. He thought of the Madnerlys, who had always been loyal and true to the Starks. Wendel Manderly had brought Jon to Essos, and he was as fat as he was fierce. But Jon knew the stories of Daeron the Young Dragon. The Conqueror of Dorne for a single summer. But had the Dothraki ever faced men in plates of armor? “Jhogo, show me your arakh.” The Dothraki looked reluctant. “Just show it, Jhogo. After all the wine tents you dragged me to, you owe me a minute with your sword.”

Jhogo relented. He unfastened the slender blade and handed it to Jon. It was light, and the curved middle gave it good reach. Perfect for horseback, perfect for cutting through bare flesh or studded leather. But Jhogo would have an easier time carving through a mountainside than piercing a man in steel armor.

“You don’t have the blade for the knights of Westeros.” Jon returned the blade, arakh first. “Fetch me my sword. It’s strapped to Shadow, hanging from the side.”

Jhogo made his way. “You named your horse, Andal? What’s the point in that?”

“The sword, Jhogo. I didn’t ask for your thoughts.” The man was chuckling as he returned with the wolf-marked blade. “Look at this, Jhogo. You see this point?” Jon’s thumb trailed along the sharp edge. “This is a longsword. There’s a reason why it is the most valued weapon in all of Westeros. Because nothing else can pierce through steel armor. The point, this right here, will find the little nooks between the plates. It can stab as easily as cleave. It’s not as light as an arakh but, well, few things are. But I could still wield this blade for hours.”

Jhogo crossed his arms. The man did not look pleased. “So the Khal would be made a fool if we sailed for your Westeros?”

“If he sailed today? Right this moment?” Jon nodded. “Yes. The Dothraki would be slaughtered. But that can change. You can devise new techniques, adapt. Maybe then.”

Jhogo rubbed at his lips. “Andal, I don’t know if I should be scared or excited. Maybe both?”

“Maybe both,” Jon said.

They reached Qohor on the third day. Khal Drogo’s forty thousand raised their camp around the city. From the hillside Jon could see the golden stone walls that surrounded the city. In their approach Jon could see that carved into the stone were the massive heads of goats, and hung around their heads were wreaths of flowers.

“Supposedly, the Qohoriks worship some kind of goat god,” mused Jhogo. Jon could believe him. When Khal Drogo summoned him to the manse of Vaero Poto, he passed under the archways of the city gates. They were shaped like goat horns, and all of the guardsman had strings of goat hair hanging from the blade of their spears.

Jon knew he had found Vaero Poto’s manse when he found the columns of Unsullied. The spearmen marched along the white stone walls of the manse, their formations rigid and precise. A black goat’s head was painted on their shield, the same heraldry that flew from the top of the manse. Jon didn’t need to announce himself in his approach. The Unsullied took a single look to him, and with a nod opened the manse gates wide for him. I must be the only Westerosi in the entire city.

After he dismounted from Shadow, an attendant arrived and showed him the way. The manse was bristling with the footpaths of a dozen different commanders and soldiers. The attendant seemed at home in the chaos, but it was all Jon could do to avoid getting tRampled in the commotion. He followed the man down the round halls of oak to a door adorned in silver hinges. With a push the doors swung open, and with the attendant’s gracious bow, Jon was allowed entry.

The war room was a wide, circular and ornate. Braziers carved into the shape of gaping jaws lit the room, and the table in the center was a massive side of a tree given legs and flattened into a smooth surface. The floor was decorated by stones engraved into the ground, arranged into the form of the black goat of Qohor. Khal Drogo was there, leaning against the table as he peered over a leather map. His bloodriders were next to him; Cohollo with his broken nose and shattered teeth, Qotho who always seemed to be glaring at either Jon or Daenerys, and Haggo, who by Jon’s estimates had not spoken three words since Jon met him a month past. On the other side of the table was a man with the most longest and sharp beard Jon had ever seen. Vaero Poto, without a doubt.

“Andal!” the Khal roared. He slapped at the  table. “Get over here.”

Vaero Poto turned. He stroked at his dark and gleaming beard. The man looked half a goat himself. “This must be the Andal I have heard the Khal of Khals speak of. I am –“

“Vaero Poto, without a doubt.” Jon offered his hand. Vaero gave a strong grip. “The commander entrusted by the city to lead the defense.”

The Qohorik smiled. “I see I have a reputation. And I have heard of you, son of Westeros. The man who swore to serve the honored Khal’s Khaleesi.” Vaero Poto turned to Ghost, who padded at Jon’s side. “And of your beast.”

Qotho glared as he crossed his arms. “A beast that scares half of our horses. It should have no place amongst the Khal of Khal’s Khalasar.”

Cohollo shook his head. “And what should we do with you then, Qotho? All of your horses are scared of you. Maybe we should throw you into the Womb of the World and be done with it?”

“Enough!” Khal Drogo’s voice roared across the room. “I made you part of my council, Jon Snow of Winterfell, so counsel.” His golden bracers chimed as he motioned towards the map. “Khal Orolo rides from Vaes Dothrak. He will burn the forests of Qohor if I do not meet him.”

“The Khal cannot suffer a humiliation,” Cohollo explained. “Khal Orolo must die before he reaches Qohor.”

“How far is he from the city?”

“By the roughest of estimates?” Jon nodded at Vaero Poto. “A day. Perhaps two. Then he will bring his torches and turn our beautiful forest to cinders.”

“That will not happen,” Drogo declared. “Look,” and he swept his dark hands across the eastern forests of Qohor. “Twenty thousand riders are counted among Orolo’s Khalasar. We are twice in that. By day’s break we will ride east and overwhelm him. Qohoriks, Unsullied, and Dothraki will end Khal Orolo and his line before he even reaches your pretty trees.”

A bold plan. So why do I taste doubt in your voice, ‘Khal of Khals’? “Khal, how much of Khal Orolo’s khalsar are seasoned? How well prepared are they?”

“They all are,” spoke Haggo.

Cohollo rubbed at his lip. “Khal Orolo is the veteran of a hundred battles. He has filled his coffers with the hordes of slaves he has sold. Some say he has more bells in his hair than the Khal of Khals.”

“They are fools,” spat Qotho.

“And how many of your riders are as well trained and seasoned?” Jon asked. There was a bit of silence. Jon had hit at a nerve; he was certain of it.

“Maybe half,” Khal Drogo admitted. “Many of my riders are the sons of men I killed on the battlefield. Most of the riders that bent to my father have passed, either through age or by steel. But all who ride in my Khalasar have sworn themselves to me.”

“Khal, with all due respect and honors,” Jon lied, “you would not be insisting on that if you believed it to be true.” Khal Drogo narrowed his dark eyes, but he did not speak. “A frontal charge is dangerous. You have the numbers, but not the strength, not the loyalty. My Lord Father once told me that you will find your friends on the battlefield. The same will be true of your enemies.”

“We have no time for wits and guiles,” Vaero Poto cried. “Khal Orolo is on the doorsteps on my home!”

“Let the Andal speak,” Khal Drogo growled. “What would you do, Andal?”

Anything could happen on the battlefield. This Khal Orolo may very well have a trap set. He could be stupid enough to charge on the field. You could die, Drogo. And the Princess would be free of you. Your plan would guarantee your life, but many of your men would die. “What you need is a diversion.” He placed a fist in the heart of the land east of Qohor. “A ruse to make this Khal Orolo think you have sent only a fraction of your number. Lord Poto, how well do your men know the forests of their home?”

“Is that an insult, Andal? Any son of Qohor could navigate the golden woods.”

Jon smiled. “That is how you will crush Orolo.” He laid both of his hands on opposite ends of the map. He moved them to the center. “The rest of your Khalasar shall be led through the forests, to the left and to the right of the field. He will be struck from the front, the left and the right. His men will be divided, his attention split. Khal Orolo will be crushed, and at the smallest cost of life to your men.

“But he needs to believe that the men in the center are the entirety of your forces.” And here is my deception. “Khal Drogo, you must lead these men.”

“That is a death trap!” Cohollo cried out. “Ten thousand against the seasoned twenty of Khal Orolo? Drogo, this is madness. Let any other do this thing, or don’t do it at all! We are Dothraki. We-“

“Enough!” The war table became silent as Khal Drogo peered over the map. “We will follow the Andal’s plan.” Cohollo and Qotho protested, but Drogo slammed his fists onto the table. “I have spoken. If we do this the old way, our forces could be crushed. So even if we win this battle, I will have lost everything. The other khals would smell my weakness, band together and strike me down. To win, my forces must survive and prevail. And Jon Snow’s plan is how it will be done.”

Khal Drogo’s dark eyes looked into Jon. “And he will be by my side to see it done. Jon Snow will be with me in the center.”

 

**THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE**

 

From the hilltop, she could see the banner of the Black Goat fly above the white walls of Qohor. “You could hear the celebration a league way,” Ser Jorah noted. They heard Qohor before they saw it. It was a day long ride from Vaes Sash to Qothor. When her kaas returned to Vaes Sash alone, Dany feared the worst. When she did not see Jon or Ghost, she felt dread pull at her.

“The Khal of Khal demands his Khaleesi and Khalmai,” Jhogo announced. “The battle is won! Khal Orolo is dead, and his men claimed by Drogo.”

“And what of Jon Snow?” she had asked.

Jhogo smiled at that. “He lives, and more, Khaleesi. Khal Drogo wants you there when he is honored with a silver bell.”

_Jon is honored with a victory? What did he do?_

“I have never heard of anyone who is not Dothraki honored with a bell,” Irri told her as she folded clothes into a luggage. “Khaleesi, Jon the Andal must have done something great.”

Within the day they had made their preparations. The air was filled with excitement. “The Dosh Khaleen are done!” a woman exclaimed as Dany rode through the streets. Dany wondered if she was standing in the middle of history. Would the historians remember the last Targaryen princess as the first Khaleesi of a new dynasty?

Despite her brother’s protests, Dany was at the front of the van when they arrived at Qohor. Ser Jorah was at her side, along with her good-mother Vearii. They were the first to enter the horned gates of the city, and were the first to see the festivities of the city. She could smell the aroma of spiced mutton on every street corner. From windows and around the alleys she heard the cries of “Khaleesi! Khaleesi!”

“At least they remember how to bleat,” the Khalmai said with a smile. Despite the sharp wit, Dany could feel the pride in the woman’s voice. Her son had won. His greatest victory was in his grasp. What mother wouldn’t be proud? _So where is my pride? He is my husband. He will be the father of my children_. _But all I can think of is the reason for Jon’s bells._

The streets of the city center were thick with blood. The rank smell slithered from the cobblestones, and it made Dany feel sick in her stomach. A dozen cattle were put to the slaughter on offering boards, their innards strewn out. Men in goat heads decorated in rings of flowers raised their cleavers in celebration, and the crowd brought their voices in turn.

But that wasn’t where the sickening came from. She saw a man on the most inner of the boards; a crimson line across his neck, and his hands and feet tied down and bent over the edges of the stone. The offering table was a dark red. “So they actually did it,” Ser Jorah said with disgust. Dany turned to him, and the Northern knight chewed on his lip. “The goat god of Qohor demands a daily sacrifice. Most often it is just livestock; cows, sheep and other cattle, maybe a few chickens or cocks. But when the city is in danger, their god demands something more.”

“A person.” She felt the bile in her throat.

“Yes, Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said with a soft nod. “The nobles of the city often keep their own stock of baseborn sons and daughters for just an occasion. Some offer themselves willingly. In rare cases a slave will be offered but –“

“Enough,” she said. It was all she could do to keep from throwing up. “Let’s just find my husband.”

Her riders led Dany to Vaero Poto’s manse, the man dictated by the city to lead in its defense. It certainly looked like the home of a man at ease with war and blood. Illyrio Mopatis’ manse was made for splendor, but the estate that Dany rode into looked half like a fortress. There was no elegance in its construction, no beauty; only cold practicality.

Bald slaves adorned in copper torcs around their necks attended to them. They took the reins of Silver and the horses of her khas, and withdrew them to the stables. One of them was dressed in a robe of silk, and with a bow and polite words he bid them to follow. They were led through the curved halls and brought to a long hall filled with tables and benches. On the highest seat was her husband. Khal Drogo was dressed in a bright and golden robe, a stallion stitched into the silk, with a crimson fox pelt wrapped around his shoulders. To his left sat a man with a beard so dark, pointed and gleaming with oil that he could give Illyrio lessons. He had to be Vaero Poto; Ser Jorah had explained how he was the man chosen by the Qothoriks to safeguard their lives.

“Husband,” she said with a bow of her head, the crown of bronze coins dangling from her brow.

“My Khaleesi has come, and the hour is not late.” With a wave of his hands he motioned her forward. Viserys sought to follow, but Rakharo put himself in her brother’s way. She could feel his anger.

“We came as soon as we could, oh son of mine,” Vearii said. “It’s not like we have wings.”

“Waging my conquests would be easier if you did. I just need send you to scold my enemies into my submission.” The silver bells in Khal Drogo’s hair sang as he rose from his seat. “Your sworn sword, bloodrider, whatever the hells Jon Snow is – he will be honored.” Khal snapped his fingers, and a slave in a golden collar arrived with a small velvet box. Khal Drogo opened it to reveal a silver bell. “I meant to give him a wife. I thought one of your handmaids would please him. Irri at first, but he refused her.” Irri’s cheeks went pink. “Then your Lysene handmaid, but he refused her as well. I offered him a horse, or make him one of my kos and lead a khas in my name. He refused them all. Do you know what he said to me, Khaleesi?”

“Something that holds to his Westerosi honor. Of that I am certain, husband.”

Khal Drogo snorted. “Andal honor indeed. He said he only wished to serve. Well, all servants need to be rewarded.” Khal Drogo removed the silver bell from the box and placed it in Jon’s hands. “At least have a bell, in return for saving my life.”

Daenerys looked at Jon. “He saved your life?” The man sworn to protect me let my husband live? I’ve seen the fire in your eyes whenever my husband was mentioned. Why would you save him?

“Indeed he did, Khaleesi,” spoke Cohollo through his broken teeth. “A hundred men saw it. Drogo’s stallion was killed with a spear to the throat. He was thrown onto the ground, and Orolo charged at him. Jon Snow of Winterfell was there – it was his sword that brought down the Khal. Once Orolo was nothing but a bloody heap, the battle was all but won.”

“And Khaleesi,” leaned in Vaero Poto, “he designed the plan that ensured the survival of your husband’s empire. He split the Dothraki forces into three, with the smallest and weakest in the center. When Khal Orolo smelled and lunged for the honey trap, the rest of the Golden Horde surrounded and crushed his Khalasar.” Vaero Poto rubbed at his slick beard. “If Khal Drogo listened to his bloodriders, many would not be here today.”

Cohollo smiled, showcasing his shards of teeth. “You should be proud of your sworn sword, Khaleesi. Many of the Golden Horde are overwhelming the armor-singers of Qohor with their demands for a long and narrow arakh.”

Dany was only half focused on what her husband’s bloodrider was saying. She looked at Jon, and it was a struggle to read him. Unless a fury had overtaken him, and his gray eyes turned into a black fire, the man’s face was a mask. And that mask was still and solemn, offering nothing. She would look to him as he walked beside her, and sometimes Dany wanted to scream at him. What are you thinking, Jon? What do you want? When Jon would speak, Dany would mull over his words, trying to unlock some hidden meaning behind them. All she got for her efforts was frustration.

Jon looked at the bell in his hands, his fingers lightly caressing it. “This is not my victory, Khal. There were others. The Qohoriks that navigated the woods, the Unsullied that held the line-“

“And none cut down Khal Orolo. None devised the plan. Take the damn bell, Andal, or I’ll stuff it down your throat.”

Vaero Poto smiled. “The day is won, Your Excellence. I know your men must be tired from the ride and the battle. How much longer will Qohor open itself to its saviors?”

“There is still the matter of the khalakka,” Drogo said.

The confusion on Vaero’s face was clear. “Khalakka?” he asked with difficulty, his tongue barely grasping the word.

“Heir to a Khalasar,” Dany explained. “A prince.” _One I cannot seem able to give to Khal Drogo._

Khal Drogo nodded. “I have sent riders out to retrieve his son. The whelp is called Toqoro, and so long as he lives he is a threat. Once he is found, we shall move.”

The Qohorik made a nervous twitch of a smile. “And then you shall return to your glorious capital?”

“No,” Khal Drogo said. His dark eyes were narrowed. “Then we ride for Vaes Dothrak. That is the true reason you were summoned, Daenerys. I will have you see Vaes Dothrak burn.”

Hours later, when Dany was settled into her husband’s chambers, Dany had called for Jon. Doreah was hard at work on unraveling her hair while Irri and Jhiqui were setting all of her belongings in order. Her mountains of dresses, her hordes of jewelry, the ash chest bound in bronze that cradled her dragon eggs. They were piled high and towered over them.

When Jon arrived her hair was a sea of silver and gold; unwound and with no restraints. She looked to her handmaids. “Leave us,” she said. They walked past Jon, Irri keeping her head low to avoid his gaze. It didn’t matter - Jon only looked at Daenerys.

“Princess,” he said with a bow of his head. She heard the jingling of the bell that he hung from his shoulder.

“I see you found a place for my husband’s honor.”

He nodded. “I don’t have the hair to hang it like the Dothraki would.” She remembered the first time that Dany laid her eyes on Jon: his black hair ran down to his shoulders in thick and curly waves. A few months have passed since he was shaved and his hair still only went down to his chin.

“It suits you better Jon.” She reclined in her seat. “You are not Dothraki. Something you remind me of all too frequently.”

Jon took a few steps forward. “Why did you summon me, My Lady?”

Dany narrowed her eyes. _When will you call me by name? I would call you things much sweeter if not for our circumstances._ “When you conceived the plans for my husband’s victory, did you intend for him to die?” He looked at her like she had grown a third breast. “That was an enormous risk, Jon.” She could see the nervousness in his stance, the twitching of his fingers near his sword belt. “There are none here but us. My husband will not return from his dealings with the lords of Qohor for several hours yet. I told him I was too exhausted from my journey to attend.” She smiled. “You are not the only Westerosi in the Golden Horde that can deceive, Jon.”

“It was a risk worth taking,” he said. “I insisted that Drogo be in the center. It would be the weakest column, and would be the bait for Khal Orolo.”

“You expected he would die there.”

“There was a chance he could. A high chance. I thought to ride from the side, with the bulk of the forces. None could say I would have a hand in his death if I was nowhere near him on the battlefield. But then he insisted that I be at his side during it all. It was chaos, My Lady. I saw men with their heads removed still riding their horses.” Jon looked away from her. “I had been trained to fight. Prepared to fight my brother’s battles. But I was never told how much madness was involved. Screams to the left and to the right of you.”

“But why did you save him?”

“Because I was right there when his horse was speared.” He looked to her then. “I couldn’t leave him to die.”

“Because people would know that you let it happen.”

“And then your life and mine would be forfeit. They may have said that you conspired with me. And if any of the Golden Horde survived, they would have hunted us down.”

“You could have died.” Dany rose from her seat. “You could have been killed. If it was just your life on the scales, if you knew this could only be traced back to you…would you have done it Jon? Would have left my husband to die?”

“Yes.”

 _You damn fool. Thank you._ “Listen to me Jon.” And then she laid her hand on his cheek. “I swore a vow to you, the same day you promised to safeguard me. I promised I would never bring you dishonor. I should have made another promise. I should have said what I wanted, not what Viserys told me what a princess should say. Jon, do not ever put your life in front of mine. Not ever again. Do not throw your life away for my sake.

“The next time you think to do that, I will cast you from my house. I will send my husband’s khalasar to chase you all the way back to Pentos. You will not be the one to kill Khal Drogo” She looked at Jon. _I refuse to let you die_. “By the blood of my family, I swear that Khal Drogo will perish. No sons of mine will ever call him father. Khal Drogo will not live out the year. When Khal Drogo dies, it will be at our hands.”

 

**THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL**

 

It had been two days since Khal Drogo sent his bloodriders north, west and south of Qohor with a hundred men in search of the khalakka. They were to ride for three days, scouring the Essosi countryside for the boy. By the dawn of the third day they were to make their return, with or without the child.

Ghost was sprawled across the grass as he watched Jon. He struck at the training dummy, his wooden blade crashing against the heap of straw. The iron helm rattled as Jon struck against it. “The dummy will not fall,” No-Eyes tapped his stick into the ground, “no matter how much you hit it.”

Jon struck at the helm again. It rang like a cracked bell. “It’s not about dummy.” Jon wiped the snot away from his nose. “No-Eyes, what am I?”

The old Dothraki frowned. “If this is a riddle, Andal, it is a poor one. You are a man.”

Jon nodded. “And a man is flesh and blood. But I need to be like steel. Flesh is easily cut down, but steel is resistant and flexible. I need to be like steel, to do what needs to be done.”

No-Eyes shook his head. “Is this about the Khaleesi, Jon?”

Jon turned with a doubtful look. He doesn’t know. He can’t. “I almost died in the battle.” It was only half of a lie. “I could just as easily be among the scores of dead that were piled on the pyres.”

“There is still the other Andal. Do you doubt the prowess of Jorah? She will be safe under his care. None of the Golden Horde will touch the Khaleesi.””

Jon turned toward his back on No-Eyes. With a firm grip he struck at the dummy’s iron helm. It rang like a cracked bell. “I don’t trust Jorah Mormont.”

No-Eyes shook his head as he chuckled. “I am beginning to understand why Rhaesh Andahli has so many wars.”

The wooden sword struck against the flank of the dummy. It shook as strands of hay flew through the air. “I thought I’d find you here, Andal,” Jhogo said. Jon turned and saw the Dothraki approach. Rakharo and Aggo were at his side. “You can never relax, Jon Snow.”

Jon shrugged. “I can relax when I have reason to. What are you doing here, Jhogo? Did the Princess summon me?” He leaned on his wooden sword.

Aggo laughed. “The Andal always seems so intent that the Princess has need of him. Her brother was wailing, and we had to get away.” Jon wasn’t surprised. Viserys had all the graces of a pregnant cat.

Rakharo rubbed at his chin. “We knew the last place the Begging Prince would be is with you, Jon Snow.”

“While you are here, make yourselves useful.” No-Eyes tapped the ground with his stick. “The Andal wants to become steel. Temper him. Three of you on him.”

Rakharo scoffed. “We don’t listen to you, blind one. You are not our ezzolat.” Aggo and Jhogo shared a nervous look.

“But you’ll listen to me.” Jon pointed to Rakharo. “I’ll speak to the Khaleesi how you displeased one of her husband’s trusted advisors.”

“Jon,” Jhogo said, “three on one? You’ll be bruised and swollen all over until the next moon. Ghost has a better chance of learning to dance.”

Jon smiled. “I’ll take that bet. I’ve always wanted to see Ghost jig.”

Rakharo slapped Jhogo on the shoulders. “Come. If the Andal wants to serve the Khaleesi with a bruised lip, we’ll honor him.” They approached, with steel arakhs in hand. Jon knew there was no bloodlust in them, but there was a glimmer in Rakharo’s dark eyes all the same. The man could not back down from a challenge. That was a start. He remembered what Ser Rodrik told him once: _Know your enemy, and the battle is already won_.

He had seen Jhogo fight, but it was only with his whip that he treasured so much. He only had his arakh on him, and Jon suspected he could exploit that. As for Aggo, well, the man was all muscle. Perfect for the bow that the Dothraki favored on horseback, but could the same be said for the arakh? That was a slender and smooth weapon, which relied more on speed than pure strength. Aggo would be no issue.

And besides, all Dothraki are raised on the saddle. Some say that they are even born on it. They are half a warrior when removed from their horses.

Rakharo came first with a wide swing. Jon swerved out of the way and slapped him in the wrists. The man stumbled as the arakh fell to the ground. He grasped his wrist in pain as he cried out. Aggo and Jhogo both came at him at once. Jhogo swung, but it was too short. The arakh had a good reach, but it wasn’t that good, and the longsword was better by far. He stabbed Jhogo in the gut, and the man doubled over as he clutched at his middle. Aggo barreled towards Jon, but he was as loud as a bunch of drunks. Jon avoided him with a step to the side and with a swing knocked Aggo flat onto the earth.

Jon tapped the ground with his training sword. “I think you owe me a dancing wolf, Jhogo.”  The Dothraki interweaved his laughs with his coughs as he stumbled to his feet.

But then Jon felt a chill – he turned and he saw Quaithe standing aside No-Eyes. Jon didn’t even hear her enter the yard. “Shadowbinder,” No-Eyes greeted. The other Dothraki stayed silent and avoided her gaze.

“Blind one,” Quaithe spoke behind her mask. “Flesh is flesh, Jon Snow,” she said as she walked down the steps. “And steel is steel. One cannot be the other.” Ghost looked towards Quaithe with a stern dedication.

“Stick to your words, sorceress, and let me stick to my steel.”

“Perhaps you need to become stone, if you are so easily struck.” She leaned in close. “All of the training in the world won’t prepare you for what you must do.”

Jon leaned on his wooden sword. “And what is it I must do?”

The Asshai’I laughed behind her mask. It sounded like a queer melody. “Don’t ask what you already know the answer to, Jon Snow. It makes you sound stupid.”

 _She knows that Daenerys and I want the Khal dead. How?_ For some reason, he was reminded of the Targaryen bastard Bloodraven. It was said that he had a thousand eyes and one. More than enough to compensate for the eye that he lost at the hands of his brother Aegor Bittersteel. He thought of the songs that Sansa held so dear. The darker ones always had a necromancer or a spellweaver as the villain for the valiant knight to conquer.

Behind her mask, her eyes shone like a flickering torch. “It won’t be steel but conviction that saves Daenerys Stormborn.” She reached into her nightly robes and pulled out a peach, orange and ripe and bristling with a fuzz. “You look parched, Jon Snow. A small refreshment.”

Quaithe laid it in Jon’s hands. “Why are you giving me this?” Nothing about the Shadowbinder suggested that she was charitable. Whenever Jon would look at her he would have a small tingle of dread. If Jon had to be honest, there was nothing he knew about the woman. He couldn’t even see her because of her thrice damned mask. Father would have kept a spear long distance from her, even Ser Wendel would cease his boasts and laughs to keep a careful eye on her. Jon felt he needed to follow in their example.

“Do not become a Maester, Jon Snow. You have no skill in the art of asking the right questions. The peach is a peach. It is filled with juices wet and sweet, and it is delicious.”

His throat did ache from training. Ser Rodrik always told him how he tended to put too much of himself into his swings. He bit into the peach; he felt the sweet juices get soaked into his whiskers. It was so delicious and succulent, Jon didn’t even chew through the morsel. He savored the taste in his mouth.

Jon could not remember the last time he tasted anything so wet and savoring. Perhaps it would have been in Winterfell, with some baked apples. Jon wondered if he would ever come home again. Father told him three years, but he never intended for Jon to pledge his sword to House Targaryen. Jon would never want to turn his sword on Father. Father had never raised his voice, had never let rage overtake him, no matter how much Jon or Robb would frustrate him. He thought of how Arya would smile when Jon would rustle her hair. He even thought of Sansa, delicate, wonderful Sansa, who only dreamed of songs and was always courteous.

He thought of Bran. Bran, who would climb in the rain and the wind, and had never fallen. Not until days before Jon was set to leave for Essos.

If Jon would return to Winterfell, it would be under the Targaryen banner. The only way that Daenerys would be safe would be with an army at her back. It won’t be with the Golden Horde. Once Khal Drogo is dead, his Khalasar will scatter. He had heard a hundred times how the Dothraki would only follow the strong, and a corpse offers no strength. But in his bones, he knew that Daenerys would find her army.

But what if there was another way? He wondered what he could do, to bring Daenerys to Winterfell. Let her taste snow on her lips. Perhaps she would have a child, with dark hair and violet eyes, and Father would see. He would bring them all into his arms, and say, “Winterfell is your home, daughter.” The dream was a fool’s dream, but he wanted it to linger.

Jon looked into the starlit eyes of Quaithe. _Did I always feel this way?_ He drew the peach closer to his mouth. “Andal!” He turned and saw a Dothraki approach. “The Khal has called for you.”

“Did he say the cause?”

The man nodded. “He did. Cohollo has found the khalakka. Khal Drogo has summoned his council, to decide the boy’s fate when he arrives at the city.”

He, No-Eyes and Quaithe were led to the gardens of the manse. Drogo was there, sitting under the shade of a damson tree. Hezzare was beside him, his fingers tipped along the spine of a wine glass. Jon could hear the chirping of birds, feeding off of seeds that were sprawled across the gardens. Drogo summoned them forward.

“You know why you are here.”

No-Eyes bowed his head as he took his seat. “We do, Khal of Khals. Cohollo has found your prize.”

“In a few days Toqoro shall be in Qohor. That boy is the last thing that keeps Orolo’s Khalasar in check.”

“The khalakka must die, Drogo,” Hezzare said. Jon looked to the Ghiscari. “So long as he lives, there is a threat of rebellion. Kill the boy, and let Orolo’s khalasar truly be yours.”

“How is the boy?” No-Eyes wrapped his fingers around his stick. “Can he understand what has happened?”

Hezzare shrugged. “Five, mayhaps six. The khalakka himself does not matter. It is what he means to Orolo’s Khalasar. So long as Toqoro lives, there is a threat to Drogo. Kill the boy, and the threat is removed.” He sighed. “One boy, versus the hundreds it would take for us to calm the rebellion? Best to kill it before it reaches the cradle.”

“He is a boy of six!” Everyone turned towards Jon then. “Khal Drogo,” Jon said with any reverence he could force, “do not do this.”

Khal Drogo narrowed his eyes. “You do not tell me what to do, Andal.”

“Then listen to my advice, as you did on the battlefield. My Lord Father went to war twice over. The first was against the Targaryens, and the second was against the Greyjoys of the Iron Islands. When he returned from the Iron Islands, he returned with the last remaining son of that House. A boy named Theon. My Lord Father raised Theon, had him eat at our tables, had our Maester instruct him, allowed Ser Rodrik to teach him the arts of war.”

“What of it Andal?” Hezzare looked at Jon with doubt. “What does all this matter?”

“Because Theon Greyjoy is loyal to my family.” The lie tasted rotten in his mouth. Jon trusted the Kraken’s son as far as he could throw his smug ass, but he needed Khal to believe. Believe that killing this boy would be a mistake. “Bring this…Orolo’s son into your house. Feed him from your table, raise him along with your sons and daughters. Mercy and peace will earn you a great deal more than bloodshed. If you kill this boy, everything the world speaks of you will be true. You will be remembered as a butcher.”

Khal Drogo rubbed at his lips, his eyes narrowed. “Priest, what would you say?”

No-Eyes sighed. “There is a strength to the Andal’s words. I think the boy should live. Turn an adversary into a friend.”

The only one who didn’t sit was Quaithe of Asshai. Her robes ate any light that passed over her. “There is a saying, in the shadows of Asshai. ‘Only death can pay for life’. The boy must die, so another may live. That is the way of the world.” Quaithe looked down towards Jon, a cold look in her eyes. “You should know this law, Jon Snow. Your birth depended on it.”

“What are you-“

“Enough!” Khal Drogo slammed his fist into the ground. “This council is over. We have a good day, mayhaps two, before Cohollo returns. I have heard your words. Now you will obey my decrees.”

“And what will you decree?” Hezzare asked with a smile.

“Whatever I damn well please.”

 

**THE KHAL OF KHALS**

 

Cohollo returned with the boy on the second day. A curved moon lit the night sky when Khal Drogo had received word. One of the Qohorik’s bald boys arrived in his silken robes. “Honored to the honored, Khal of Khals,” the slave said in-between hurried breaths. “Cohollo has returned to the city.” He had meant to take his wife in her chambers. Gods be good, one night he would fill her with a son and cement his legacy. “Persistence”, Father had said, “was the key to victory.” But the boy had to come before all else.

He was waiting in Vaero Poto’s solar when Cohollo brought in Orolo’s son. Toqoro was a red faced little thing, with curls of dark hair. The boy was dressed in a painted vest that he had no rights to wear. No doubt Orolo filled his whelp with ideas that he was the son of the last true khal. But Drogo saw no pride in the boy. He was trembling, his lips quivering. The boy was filled with fear.

“Leave us, Cohollo”. The man left with a bow and closed the doors behind him. “Come to me, boy,” Drogo said. Toqoro took small steps, each one filled with hesitation. But the boy came nonetheless. “You know who I am.” Drogo leaned forward, his hands laid on his knees.

Toqoro looked up, his black eyes narrowed and full of resistance. He is a khal’s son. “The false khal.”

A low rumble spilled out from Drogo as he laughed. “You are Orolo’s son. Only his would be so bold. Even in the face of death.”

Toqoro’s eyes went as wide as a saucer. “You’re going to kill me?”

Drogo slumped in his chair. He is just a boy. The boy took every step with shaking confidence, thinking each would be his last. No, knowing that every step will be his last. The boy knows what a khalakka is, knows what happens to the son of every defeated khal. Any hope for the boy was lost when Cohollo found him.

I looked like him, half a lifetime ago. I had just as many aspirations, I loved my father just as much. I was just as weak. The boy had the deep dark eyes of the Dothraki, his hair was a thick black mane. Drogo could lose his fingers in it. He reeked of horse and sweat. Drogo had never known what it meant to be truly Dothraki, to be a sincere son of the old ways. He was always dotted in perfumes, to keep the horse stench away, he always wore fine leathers and velvet robes to maintain a regal and majestic appearance.

And here was this little boy, this small contender, a half-worn wall that represented the old ways. Dressed in a painted vest, adorned in horse hairs, and reeking of the open road. If Drogo had grown under Orolo’s care, he would have led his Khalasar from game to easy target, confusing raids with glory and sacrifice.

“I don’t want to die!” the boy screamed. None of us do. Tears were flowing freely on his cheeks. Any man that would claim as such was a damn liar. But Toqoro came closer to Drogo all the same, with each small and reluctant step. Where else can he go? His life has been claimed by Drogo. Where is he to run to, in the entirety of Qohor?

He has nowhere to go, except to Drogo. Except to death.

Finally, the boy stood in front of Drogo, his small fingers tightened into tiny fists at his side. His dust stained skin was streaked tears, but the boy did not look away from the Khal of Khals. His dark eyes were strained red, but they were focused on Drogo’s eyes.

 _I hope my son is as brave as you, Toqoro. I hope the Great Stallion lets my seed quicken in Daenerys Targaryen. I hope I produce a prince that the histories will remember. The first true son of my empire._ Toqoro could have been his son, Drogo realized. In another lifetime, where he had wed a woman born under the eyes of the Great Stallion, his son would have the darkest of hairs and skin that shone like polished bronze. He would have the same mixture of fear and courage, just as Toqoro does now. He would have the same potential, and the same pride in who he was.

He considered Toqoro and he saw himself, the boy who was born the son of Khal Bharbo. The son that became a Khal of an empire. The Khal that now held a child’s life in his hands.

Somehow, he had found himself resting on bent knees before Toqoro. The boy had found himself in Drogo’s embrace. He wrapped his burly arms around the boy. Toqoro was weeping softly. Drogo’s fingers ran through the boy’s black hair. He could be me. He could be my son. But what he is, is the seed of my enemy.

Drogo’s embrace tightened, his tender caress soured into a painful grip. The boy gasped. He slapped at Drogo’s face and arms. They were small and pathetic strikes. The boy’s urges for breath became desperate. Drogo kept the embrace firm, his arms forming a tighter hold around the child. He could feel the boy shudder against him, the small head shaking.

Then the boy stopped protesting. He did not breathe.

Drogo held the boy in his arms, and he looked at the child’s pale eyes. He closed them, forever. Drogo whispered soft things into ears that could not hear, words of thanks and hopes for understanding. It was for my empire, for my kin, for my sons yet born. He told the lies to himself over and over. Drogo cradled Toqoro for a long time, until the morning light filled the room.

 

**THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE**

 

The people of Qohor rioted for three days before the Unsullied and the Drogo’s guard could put it down. Word of the khalakka’s death reached the ears of those that still held the image of Khal Orolo dear, and they rose up for restitution. The streets were filled with the dead, the anguish cries filled the night skies, and many merchants and visitors were driven beyond the city gates.

Khal Drogo declared none of his house would leave the safety of Vaero Poto’s manse. It was half a fortress, and none of the Qohoriks or the Orolo loyalists dared enter the shadow of the drum tower. No words were spoken, but the thought remained silent. Khal Drogo cowered behind walls, while sworn and capable men settled his mistakes. Dany could taste the doubt and apprehension that filled the air. Drogo’s quick laughs and boasts would have a bitter twist to them. Vaero Poto’s gestures and courtesies began to hold a second meaning.

And Drogo found no sleep. He was forced awake with night terrors, his bronzed flesh had turned a softer shade through the night. Every night he would awaken Dany as he stirred from his bed, his erratic pacing loud and cumbersome. On the third night, Dany had enough of the silencer. “The boy haunts you,” she said as she swept the bed covers from her.

Khal Drogo turned to her, his hands drawn behind his back. “The boy does not keep me.”

“Then who is it that stirs you awake? You know you should not have killed the khalakka. The people know it, and look what they have done. They have closed down the market streets of Qohor in fear, your men are just putting an end to the riots. All because you took the easy path. My knight was right-“

Drogo turned on her, his dark eyes fiery and hot. “Tell me, Daenerys Targaryen, my beggar queen. When was the last time?”

“The last time what?”

“The last time you did something hard. Something difficult. Something that filled your belly with fear.” He was a breath away from her now, and his strong fingers held a fierce grip on her arms. She could feel the heat of his breath.

She did not look away from him. “I married you.”

“Do you know how it is that upholds this empire? It is not your marriage. It is I. I am the one that keeps this empire in check! I am the one that has united the Khalasars into one! I was the one that sent Orolo into the ground. I am the one that makes the hard choices, the ones that defines my legacy. I give you dresses of silk, crowns of medallions, copper bands and silver rings. And where is your service to me?” He gripped her belly. She gasped in pain. “Where is my son!”

“I don’t have him!” she snarled through gritted teeth. Drogo pushed her onto feather cushions. “What would you have me do, dear husband? You mount me, fill my womb with your dripping seed. What else would you have me do?”

“Take to me with exuberance,” he said. “First you wept, as if the mere tasting of me tore at you. I thought that was bad enough, but now you remain silent and still. What a way to inspire me when I come to our bed.” He turned from her, discarding his robes on the floor. “Leave me.”

“Leave you?” _Is he discarding me? If the gods were good –_

“I see the look in your eyes, filled with hate. I won’t look at you tonight. Find your own chambers for the night. I’m weary of you, just as you are of me.”

She took a few steps back, careful steps on the balls of her heels. She looked at Drogo, waiting, testing to see just what he meant. Was this a trick, some kind of deception to see just what wife she was? _Do you know how much I hate you? That I wish for your death every night?_ But Drogo had turned from her and was looking above Qohor from his balcony, the curtains of lace fluttering in the night air.

Her hands found the iron knob of the door, and she stepped away from her husband. He did not turn as she stepped into the curved halls. There was a quiet in the air, but it was the silence with a weight to it, a void of noise that would foretell something. Dany could not put a name on it, could not place it just what it could mean, but she had an inkling of an idea.

She was familiar with this quiet. It was a quiet where everything seemed to go slower, and every thought was considered three times over. It was like that the night before her wedding, when every breeze sounded as loud as a thunder strike. As she laid in her bed covers, head against the lush feather pillows, Dany had imagined a thousand things could have happened. An assassin would come to end her life, Viserys would come in begging apologies, news would come that Khal Drogo had died. Jon would arrive in the dark of night. “Come with me Princess. You need not marry this man.”

All were dreams that she wished would happen to her, instead of those that she would fulfill with her own hands.

She found her handmaidens’ quarters. She considered how she should proceed. Should she knock on the door? Just walk in? The answer was given to her when Doreah slowly opened the curved door, her eyes still in half a shutter. “Khaleesi?” she yawned.

“I need a room.” She thought to ask entry, but then she remembered who she was. “Let me in.”

“Of course Khaleesi.” She looked around and saw no sign of Jhiqui or Irri. “We have all been given our own chambers,” Doreah said before Dany could ask. “We _are_ the handmaids of the Khaleesi of the Grass Sea.” Of course, it made sense in retrospect. They served the wife of the greatest Khal of the Dothraki. Even as slaves, they held position. “Do you need to use my bed, Khaleesi?”

She did feel tired. It was growing late, and the argument with Drogo had made her feel weary. But she would not rest yet. “No. Doreah, I know it is late, but bring Jon Snow to me.” The Lysene looked at her, and Dany could see the hesitation in her dark eyes. “Please.”

Her eyes trailed to her feet for half a moment. “Then it will be done. Quietly,” she added before she slipped from out the room.

Jon was not long in coming. She could see his sword strapped to his side, and Ghost padded next to him. His dark hair was streaked with sweat, and his whiskers had a slight dampness to them. _He still hasn’t adapted to the Essosi heat. How different are our homes? Is Winterfell truly so cold?_ She had found a red oak chair to rest on, and her legs were crossed. She leaned against it, but she raised her chin. _I must appear a queen. Always a queen, even in front of those I trust._ “Jon.”

“Princess,” he said with a nod. His eyes were struggling to keep open. She tried to imagine what it would be like, if she was a Princess of the Red Keep. No doubt her brother Rhaegar would have been glorious on the battlefield, and he would have put thought to whom she would marry. If not Viserys, to continue the purity of the Targaryen blood, then there would be courtiers. Sons of Paramount Lords would have swarmed to the Red Keep for her hand. They would have been perfumed, wearing garments in fine velvets, with pretty smiles on their faces. In her mind’s eye, she saw Jon Snow there as well. But he came with simple clothes of Northern stock, bestowing upon her simple gestures and fine courtesies of “Princess”.

Jon Snow always came as he was, with no obstructions to the truth. He always came when called, regardless of if he was covered in dirt, or as he stood before now, more asleep than awake and sweating from the night heat. He saw how uncomfortable he looked, sweat dripping down his neck as he stood respectfully before her.

“Doreah,” she said with a turn of her head. “Can you give us a moment?” Dany could see a flash of irritation on the handmaiden’s face. It was _her_ chambers, after all, and it was _her_ sleep that Dany was disturbing. But the Lysene said nothing as she left and tenderly closed the door behind her.

“Why are you not with your husband?” _Quick to answer my summons. Quick to cut to the truth._

 _Feign boredom._ She sighed and leaned back into her chair. She folded her fingers at her lap. “My husband grew tired of me this night. He’s been restless as of late.”

Jon took a step towards her. “It’s about the boy.”

“It is,” she nodded. “He has night terrors about him. I argued that he should have listened to you. He did not care to hear that.”

His eyes narrowed. “Did he hurt you?”

The pain in her belly was throbbing earlier, but now it was a dull ache. “Better to ask if the sun has set in the east.” She saw him tightened his fingers into a fist. “Jon Snow,” she said, in as queenly and stern of a voice as she could imagine, “whatever you are thinking – don’t.”

“Don’t,” he echoed. “Don’t protect you, even though I vowed to do so. Don’t focus on how I saved the life of a slaver. Don’t remind myself that I am surrounded by men that would put our home to the torch. Don’t pretend that my family is not in danger because of my actions.” Jon sucked on his lips. “Don’t do what is right.”

“You doubt you do the right thing by being here?” _By being at my side?_

There was a twang of hurt in his eyes. “Swearing to protect you I do not regret. But I know questions will be asked when word reaches King’s Landing.” He sighed. “Perhaps it already has. I imagine Lady Catelyn would be quite content in knowing that she was right.”

“In what way?”

“That a bastard cannot be trusted.”

She rose from her feet then. Something in her called out, screaming into her mind. _Say something._ “I would have such thoughts put to rest, Lord Snow.” When he looked at her, she thought she saw something. Irritation, perhaps, but Dany imagined something more. “With words when actions cannot suffice.”

“What would you have me say? After all I have done?” _After all you have done for me? Is that what you meant to say? Do you think I doubt you, for even a second?”_

“Know where your loyalties lie.” Every time her heart beat it felt like a thunder clap. Her fingers were shaking at her side. She tightened them into a fist and clasped it to her heart. She raised her chin, in a pose she imagined her mother the Queen would have taken. _Did any obey you, Mother, as Jon Snow obeys me?_ “I would have oaths of fealty.”

“I swore such oaths. At your feet, if you recall.” _I do. I can never forget._ “I swore myself to House Targaryen.”

“And what is House Targaryen, Jon Snow?” He said nothing. She kept on telling herself she had to appear as a princess, as a queen, but she could not keep the tip of her tongue from wetting her lips.

“House Targaryen is you.” He fell on bent knees. “The words said both you and your brother, but I meant only you. Daenerys, did you feel otherwise?” _Of course not. Not even for a moment._ “What would you have me say that I have not already sworn at your feet?”

The words were screaming inside of her. “That you are mine.” And she could not keep her fingers from going through his dark, coarse, wet hair. He did not reel from her. “And that I am yours.”

Jon Snow closed his eyes. “I am a bastard.” His voice, for the first time in all the months that Dany had known him, sounded weak. Unsure.

Now her other hand was caressing his cheek, her fingers pricked by his harsh whiskers. For all of the reservations in his voice, for all the protests Jon wanted to say, he did not turn from her. The heat of him sent shivers coursing through her, from the tips of her fingers to her toes. “I don’t care,” she said as firmly as she could manage. She raised his head, and he was looking at her, and Dany could have sworn that his iron gaze had melted before her. “Listen to me, Jon Snow. I do not care who your mother is. I care that you are here, right her, right now. I care that I have loved you, for so long.” Jon stood up then, and even though he was a head taller than her, Dany could not say she felt threatened by him. She had never felt threatened by Jon Snow. She knew that she never would.

“You are mine,” she said again, more insistently, more fiercely, and this time she saw Jon drew close. So close that she felt his breath on her, and it made her heart race. “I want you forever,” she said before he kissed her. That first kiss was a soft touch. Dany almost wanted to say that it was chaste, but she could taste the feel of longing from him. “You are not a bastard,” she said just before she kissed him.

She could feel his hands drawing down her side, reaching for the folds of her cloaks. She shrugged her shoulders, and allowed the garb to slip away from her. Her fingers almost danced as they raced to find the cut of his clothes, but Jon’s fingers were entwined in her hair, the heat of him was in her mouth, and all of the sensations made it so hard to keep anything straight.

And despite it all – despite of where they were, despite that Jon had already given so much more than he would have, despite just how close Drogo was, despite of who they were and what their fathers had done – she wanted more. Her fingers found the laces of his breeches. “Jon,” she said. She tried to make her voice hard, like how a queen’s should be. A queen should not beg for her lover. A queen should command. But Jon was more than just a lover, more than some warmth to enter and spill through her.

Jon whispered out her name in a coarse voice, and he struggled through to let the trousers fall into a heap at his feet. “Quietly,” and the way he voiced it, the way he commanded her, Dany thought he sounded halfway like a king.

They had found an awkward sense of a rhythm, as they made their way to the bed. When she found the edge with her fingers, Jon kissed her again, and Dany could have felt more of his heat on her lips. She did not so much as lay on the bed as she did melt into the sheets, the warmth of Jon coursing through Dany with every moment. Jon pulled his head away, and Dany thought he was suddenly stricken with doubt. She felt to dispel it with another kiss, leaning up towards him, but Jon did not return the gesture.

He was looking down at her, his eyes focused on her thighs, and hand resting on her bent knee. He looked to her. She nodded, and he spread her legs. Dany was certain that he was about to enter her right then and there. _Jon must be as hungry for it as I am. Perhaps even more._ But it was not his manhood that seemed to grow close to her, but Jon’s face.

“Jon?”

“An idea,” was all he said. Then his tongue parted away at her folds, and his lips sucked at her, and all Dany could think was how _good_ it felt. She felt her legs rise up, and his hands were gripped around her sides. Dany croaked out half of a squeal, which was better than a gasp of ecstasy. She squirmed to the left and the right, her body refusing to stay still for even a shadow of a moment, and through it all Jon was keeping his rhythm, his eyes narrowed and focused on the task at hand.

Doreah had told her all the ways that a woman could please a man, all the ways in which a woman could make a man hers, for the briefest of times. But she never said anything about how a man could service his woman, and Dany thought that she was getting the better of the exchange as the sensation rushed from between her legs and through her mouth, screaming, begging to be heard, for the world to hear her.

She could feel it coming then, and she would not have it. She gripped Jon’s hair with her fingers, just as much to pull him away as to keep her mind knit together. “Not like this,” she gasped for breath. “Not our first time. Not our first night. Get in here,” she commanded. She didn’t care how little she sounded as a queen then. She wasn’t queen, not yet, and she doubted that Jon would ever see her as anything but Dany.

Just as Jon climbed atop the bed Dany climbed onto him. Drogo was always so rough as he entered her, as if her entire body rejected her husband. But Jon entered her so easily, his head slipped into her with such quickness, Dany was certain that her flesh was waiting for him. Jon was looking up into her. _Drogo looked into me. He never saw my eyes when he would mount me._

She wished she could have taken Jon under the open skies. She wished the entire khalasar could see them now, two made one, Daenerys and Jon. It was said all the important moments in a man’s life must be done beneath the sky. Dany felt Jon thrust against her, and Dany swerved into him, just as she would on her Silver. She wanted to cry out, but she knew where they were, who laid just beyond the door. Dany sucked on her tongue, on her cheek, anything to keep herself from screaming.

Dany swerved at her hips, and she felt Jon grip at her side with one hand, and cup her breast with another. _Are you trying to stay in this world just as desperately as I am? Are we both trying not to fly away?_

She pulled Jon to her, and he cupped her face in his hands. And then she felt it – that exhilarating heat, that warmth that threatened to turn everything into a whirlwind of colors. It swarmed through into her chest, and it took everything Dany possessed from crying out. She fell on Jon, and she felt as he collapsed into the bed.

All of her strength faded as Jon fell into the bed. Stroking his face as she laid at his side was all she could do. She could only look at him. She wanted to soothe him, say that there was no shame in what they did. She wished she could damn Eddard and Caetlyn Stark to a thousand hells, for the shame they made Jon feel. She thought of Jon’s gods then, whom he had said so much and little about. _You gods of the First Men, with your pale barks and leaves as crimson as blood, hear me. Jon is your son. You are not here in Essos, but we are coming. I promise you, we are coming. Let his seed take root in me like branching years. A son of the wolf and the dragon, a scion of ice and fire. You know what Jon means to me. I don’t know what you want of Jon, but you must know what I want from him. Let him hold his son in his arms. Honor us in this, and I am yours._

“We should get going,” Jon said as he turned. “This is Doreah’s bed, after all. I’m sure she is being very irritable right now.”

She wrapped herself around Jon. “I’m sure.” But then Jon wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tighter to him, and Dany had never felt more safe in all her days. She did not have the strength to tear away from him. _You would not believe me if I said so, but I will put a crown on your head. I will do so as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I will do so from the Iron Throne._ She swore she would in the name of whatever gods could hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not hesitate to send me your thoughts and comments like a battering ram. Tear down the gates of the fortress called "My Confidence" with vigor.


	4. Vaes Dothrak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Horde marches on Vaes Dothrak. Word has reached King's Landing. Dany and Jon cement their conspiracies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wish to read with music: http://www.chaosinferred.com/creative/asoiaf/dragons/4-vaes-dothrak/

**IV**  
**VAES DOTHRAK**

**THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL**

Two weeks after Khal Drogo began his march on Vaes Dothrak, he commanded his armies to a halt. The tents were set up, the horses were tied down and the fire pits were lit. And in every moment, it was done with dread. The entire march was filled with murmurs of the Khal that killed a khalakka. “A khal does not kill a Khalakka,” was what Jon heard in the whispers. The Khalmai had more stern words for her son than flattering ones, and it was said that he would roar at her in the night. Jon wondered what cause Drogo would have to stop the march of his armies.

“Watch yourself, Jon Snow,” Daenerys warned him one night. “Everything is different now.” Jon thought of their embrace in Qohor. He knew she wasn’t talking about that, he knew. But every time she gave him a smile when none else was around, or allowed their hands to touch when they passed by, all he could think of was her. “I don’t know what my husband intends for Vaes Dothrak.”

“A great deal of killing, no doubt.”

“No doubt. Still,” and her fingers graced his, “be careful.”

His answer came in the form of the riders in the bronze animal masks. They came for him in the early morning, just as Jon was brushing the dirt and grime from Shadow’s pelt. He followed them far from Khal Drogo’s encampment, over the sweeps of the hills of Sarnor, towards the brushes of the Dothraki Sea. The sound and bustle of the khalasar was a quiet and forgotten memory when Jon laid his eyes on Khal Drogo. He was astride his crimson stallion, and slung over his shoulders was a hunting bow.

“Khal,” Jon greeted. He felt a pounding in his chest. If a man was to be killed, this was the place to do it. They were alone for leagues. _We were not discreet, but we were quiet. Would Doreah betray us?_

“Do you know how to hunt, Andal? Did your father ever bring you into the fields with a bow in hand?”

Jon looked up into the Khal’s dark eyes. “Very rarely. My Lord Father did not often indulge in hunting, or hawking.”

Drogo grunted. “Then it is time to learn.” The Khal nodded towards one of his men, and Jon found a hunting bow and quiver forced into his hands. Drogo looked past Jon to the riders behind him. “You will wait here until our return. A day, a week, a month. You will not move.” They bowed their heads, and Jon heard the clattering of bronze chains and golden honors.

Jon nudged his ankle and urged Shadow to follow the Khal. They traveled into the green of the sea, the tall grasses swaying against Jon’s legs. They rode away from the well-trodden path to Vaes Dothrak, venturing into the endless plains of the tall grass. Jon looked around him and all he could see was the Dothraki Sea, stretched to below the horizon. He could see only the faintest inkling of the smoke from the fire pits.  They rode past birds with skin flapping around their beaks, and rodents with thick tails and floppy ears. Jon even saw a deer, grazing from the thick grass. Drogo was interested in none of them.

“Khal,” Jon said, “what are we hunting?”

“None of these common stock,” Drogo growled. “Were all the Khals of the Andals so content to let their lands swarm with beasts?”

Jon shook his dead. “No. My Father was the exception. I know that King Robert loved to hunt. They were out hunting when-“ When Bran fell, he realized. King Robert had grown tired of resting in the warm halls of Winterfell, and he wanted to be warmed by boar’s blood. So, he gathered Father, Robb, and even managed to get Tyrion Lannister onto a horse, and they rode out into the woods. Jon could not remember if the Queen’s brother went, but he had no reason to think the Kingslayer would be denied some blood. _Or maybe he would be denied the hunt._ Who would trust a murderer of kings? “When he came to visit my Lord Father. They came back with a boar.”

“A boar,” Drogo said, speaking the words like they meant something. “I’ve seen them. Biggest fucking beasts you can find, except for a good horse. Huge tusks. Could rip a man in two if a boar had the advantage. And you Andals would hunt them for sport?”

“Well,” Jon said, “we would do it with a damn long spear.”

Drogo pulled his head back and laughed. “Yes, yes! That would do it. Poor on us, for not bringing a spear to hunt some boar. But we’re going after something else.”

“And what would that be?”

Drogo shrugged. “I’ll let you know when I find out.” If Drogo was as skilled in the sword as he was at being a hunter, Jon would have rescued Dany from him months ago. He had enough sense to keep his mouth silent, so he followed Drogo in his trail. “Jon Snow, my wife knows she can trust you. Am I the same? Do I have your trust?”

“In all things, Khal,” Jon said. The lie tasted bitter on his lips. Father would have had more than a few choice words for the deceit, but Father wasn’t surrounded by enemies on all sides. “You have honored me again and again, let me sit at your table when you feasted. Even my Father sent me down the hall when the King arrived.”

Drogo nodded. “You were right about the boy. Toqorro.” Drogo sighed. “Toqorro. I should remember his name. I should not have killed him. The influence of Orolo’s wraith is too great on my Khalasar. Do you know what they say?” He did not wait for Jon to answer. “‘A khal does not kill a Khalakka’. As if I was another mere khal. As if the laws of our people have not been changed forever.” _You should not have killed him because he was a child. He was innocent._

“You did what you thought was best.” _And your thoughts are defiled._

“My thoughts were mired in bad council.” Drogo shook his head. “A khal does not kill a khalakka. That is the most sacred law of the Dothraki. Even beyond the demands of the Dosh Khaleen. Every khal knows how vital a son is to their name and legacy. And I broke that law. I should have sent one of my bloodriders to do the deed. Or maybe Hezzare. That brother I chose is the one that said the boy had to die. Maybe _he_ should have held the knife.”

Jon’s grip tightened on his reins. He thought how easy it would be to ride Drogo down at that very moment, when his guard was let down. It was not just for the safety of Dany. More than that. It was because this man deserved to die. He talked of a child’s death because _he_ had done it. He regretted not sending another to do the bloody deed.

Jon remembered the words of Father. _The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword_. He could feel Father’s light touch on his shoulder, his cool gaze as he spoke. Robb had taken it to heart, and Jon always thought he would as well. But here he was, alone with a man that the world would be well rid of, and Jon would not pull his sword.

What would the Golden Horde think, when Jon arrived absent of their khal? They would know something was afoot, and thinking on Dothraki justice, Jon had no doubt they’d pull him apart. And after him would come Daenerys. They would not kill her, not at first. She would be the widow of a khal, and that meant she had no power or authority. Jon knew what they would do to her.

_I must wait. I need to do one thing I never had a taste for, and that is being patient. Father, if you were here, you would see the worth in that._

Would he?

“So, tell me Andal. My wife…Daenerys. Does she loathe me?”

“Yes,” Jon said quickly. “There is no love in her for you.”

“I thought as such. A khal does not need a khaleesi’s love. I have my concubines for that. They give me enough affection for twenty men.” A bitter laugh slipped from Drogo’s laugh. “It would be easier, on both of us, if she would just conceive. I don’t need her love, but I need her son. I need my heir.” Drogo scratched at his beard. “Every man needs the fruits of his loins. Tell me Andal, why did you not accept my gift?”

“Your gift?”

Drogo turned his stallion towards Jon. “The handmaidens. I gave your choice of any of them. Don’t even think of saying the sight of them would not please you. But you refused them. Give reason to it.”

“I wish only to serve, Khal.”

“That is not the truth. Tell me, Andal. Why would you not know the pleasure of a woman?” _I have come to know such a thing. Daenerys Targaryen accepted me. If only I could make you think on that, Khal Drogo, murderer of women and children._

“My father is the lord of House Stark. My last name is Snow. Do you know what that means, Khal?” The man shrugged. “It means I am a bastard. My father made me with someone who was not his wife. There are few things more shameful in the Seven Kingdoms than that. I can have no land, no titles. I have noble blood in my veins, but it is black. It is bastard’s blood. Let’s say I have a child. A bastard is once damned. A bastard’s bastard is twice so.”

Drogo considered him for a moment. “You are a fucking fool, Andal. Do you know why I am the Khal of Khals? Why all this land is mine? My blood had shit all to do with it. It was because I fought for it, I bled for it, I did everything I could to achieve this. So your father spilled his seed in some woman who was not his wife. What of it?” he scoffed. “I am telling you what you will do. You will take one of my wife’s pretty handmaidens, and you will take her to bed. You do whatever courtesies or gentle things that makes you feel better for it. And when she gives you a son, he will rise alongside mine own. And if she gives you daughters instead? Well, perhaps I may see fit to marry one of my own sons to them.”

“You would make me kin. Why? I am nearly a stranger to you.”

“A stranger that has saved me thrice now. You gave me wise council against Orolo, you preserved my life on the field, and you saw the right of it with the khalakka.” Drogo rubbed at his face. “Hezzare is my brother, but he is too bound by logics and his thrice damned numbers. Doesn’t see the heart of things. But I think you do, Jon Snow. So, I will keep you close.”

 _Keep me close…to what end?_ For a moment, Jon thought it was the fear that was driving him. It was something about the way Drogo said those words, the harsh language of the Dothraki, that nagged at Jon. Jon told himself that it was the fear that was the real dagger that was scratching at his soul, not the tone of Drogo’s words. The thought was not convincing, no matter how hard he brooded on it. But then the Khal whipped at his stallion’s reins and he rode off, and Jon followed. They rode through the Dothraki Sea in silence, and Jon considered all the while. _You would wed my daughters to your sons, but Dany will give you none. She would sooner have boys and girls with dark hair and violet eyes_. The thought filled him with just as much pride and joy as it did fear and shame.

What would Father say, that he chose the love of a Targaryen over all else? Would he be proud that Jon found joy in a soul? How could Jon show Dany to his family? She was beautiful and proud and kind, and was the Mad King’s Daughter.

It was midday when they crossed over a brook, the waters washing over brown stones. Jon smelled something foul, and even Ghost seemed at unease. When he nudged Shadow forward with a tap of the ankle, he knew why. A deer carrion laid just beyond, the antlers sunk into the earth. It was half eaten, the ribs poking out with clumps of red meat resting on its point, and the filthy stench of death assailed Jon. He managed to hold back a gag.

“Must have been a hyena, a pack of them,” Drogo decided. “They leave nothing but scraps.”

“No,” Jon said. “This is fresh.” He turned before he heard the rustling in the grass, and just as the white lion pounced for him Jon raised up his hand. He hit the ground hard, and he yelled as the yellow teeth of the beast dug into his flesh. His left hand was coiled into a fist, and he pounded into the lion’s side. The beast just dug deeper into Jon, and he howled with the pain.

Then the lion was off him, tumbling into a mess of white fur and red eyes, rolling and ripping through the grasses, dirt flying into the air. Jon heard Shadow cry out in fear – he had tumbled to the ground along with Jon. It was half a miracle he wasn’t crushed by the destrier. Ghost was on top of the beast, and Jon could see the direwolf bit deep and hard into the lion, dark red blood seeping through his fangs. The lion roared out in pain and it tried to lash out, but Ghost was faster by far, and a great deal wilier. He easily slipped from the lion’s reach and leaped back in to continue the assault.

And all the while, Jon’s mind was clouded with the pain in his arms. Thick blood seeped from the wound. Jon clutched at his arm, and his fingers were stained crimson.

Jon heard the notching of a bow. Drogo loosed the arrow, and it dug itself into the lion’s flank. The beast shuddered. Ghost ripped into the lion, as Drogo released another arrow. As the arrow sank into the its white man, the lion roared. But it sounded weaker, less formidable. Jon’s heart didn’t shake at the lion cried out that time.

Then Ghost found the belly, and the fangs ripped through the soft flesh. In his jaws were the loose and stringy entrails of the beast. Ghost dug in harder and faster as the lion flailed on the ground. Drogo approached Jon, his black eyes peering at Jon’s wound. “You’ll live, Andal. Painfully, but you’ll live.” He kicked at his stallion and rode off to fetch Shadow’s reins. “I’ll throw you over my horse’s side if I have to!” he called out.

Jon didn’t twist his head. He just watched into the gray eyes of the lion. He watched as Ghost made a meal out of it.

 

**THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE**

 

The attendant was a thin and weak looking man. His brown skin had a pale hue to it, and he hardly had a chin at all. His lips trembled. “Forgive me, Exalted One, but Master Hazeks cannot be disturbed. He is-“

“Attending Jon Snow, who is my sworn shield and protector. I should know the state of the man who has sworn his life to preserve mine.”

“Oh, Khaleesi, Master Hazeks is one of the most astounded practitioner of the medical arts in the world. He graduated from the Academy in Braavos!”

Dany narrowed her eyes. “Then my presence will not defer him. Let me in.”

The Ghiscari bowed his head. “Forgive me, but I cannot. Master Hazeks was very clear. None can come until he is done with the…Westerosi.” Ghost bared his teeth in silence. Dany rested a steady hand on the direwolf’s head. The man licked at his lips. “Khaleesi, if it pleases you, perhaps a priest of the Andal gods could be fetched?”

“It would not. Jon does not worship the Seven. His gods are the Old Gods.” He looked at her blankly. “The Gods of the First Men, taught to them by the Children of the Forest?” If it was possible, the man seemed to look more nervous the more she spoke. “What _do_ you know, besides how to keep a khaleesi from her men?”

She could hear his teeth clatter. “I know the healing arts…the basic understandings of them, Honored One. I do not know of the gods in the Sunset Lands. A thousand pardons, pardons upon pardons, but you cannot be allowed in. Master Hazeks-“

“Was very clear.” Dany turned and saw No-Eyes approach. His sandaled feet were covered in dirt, but the man didn’t seem to mind. “The Ghiscari are good for one thing, Khaleesi.”

“And what is that?”

“They are a very knowing people. For most of their kind, it is the knowledge of the whip and chain. But  a few delve into other pursuits…and they know those pursuits very well. Hazeks of Mereen knows how to heal a man. And if his attendant says none can enter, then none can enter.”

“I am Khaleesi.” The words rang as hollow in her head as it did in her throat.

“Then forgive me, Khaleesi. I was not aware that you daughters of Valyria had a miraculous aura that surrounds you day and night. None may suffer any wound or ailment in your presence?” Dany clenched her fingers into a fist. “Leave your sword at the Master’s hand, Khaleesi. And bring the wolf with you. The Ghiscari here is like to piss his robes any moment.”

Dany stormed away from Jon’s tent. “Ghost,” she growled, and the direwolf trailed after her. When she returned to her tent, she was restless. For an hour she paced around, while her handmaidens looked at her with desperate looks in their eyes. Finally, she commanded them to fill her a bath. “I can’t think,” she sighed. “Irri, Jhiqui, the copper tub that was one of my wedding gifts.” The two bowed and left.

“You cannot seem so emotional, Khaleesi.” Doreah’s delicate fingers were already at work unbraiding her hair.

“I am not an emotional woman, Doreah.”

“Every woman is. When she has a baby inside of her.” Her fingers slowed, and Dany could feel the steady stare. “Does he know?”

“No,” Dany said quickly. “Not yet.”

“Would be best if he doesn’t. One person can keep a secret, two a conspiracy. Three and the entire world shall know.” Doreah touched her hand, with a soft and determined grip. “Khaleesi, I swore I would protect you. I swore I would help you, however I can. Once we return to Vaes Sash, I can begin. Then when you are safe, that is when you should tell him.”

As she bathed in the bath, her handmaidens covered her in sweet smelling oils. The steam cleansed away at her skin, and Dany thought on what she must do next. By the time she was cleaned, and her hair was a shining silver sea, she knew what she had to do. When word reached her that Jon Snow was alive and well, she demanded to be dressed and perfumed. The silk robe was green and gold, and the jeweled roc shone in the light. _I look every bit a queen._ A queen among savages, but queen she was.

When she entered his tent, Jon was being attended to by slaves with shaved heads. “Leave us,” Dany commanded. The slaves bowed their heads and left the tent. She looked at Jon, who was sprawled across the furs and pillows. His right hand was covered in bandages, and around his fingers were small wooden planks. To keep his fingers from twitching, she was certain. For a moment, she considered what to do. She should keep her distance, to keep up the visage of platonic respect.

Dany threw it away. She got on her knees near him. “Are you well?” she asked as she swayed his damp hair away from his brow.

“I am,” he lied. She could feel it the moment she touched his arm. His mouth twitched for a moment.

“You are a terrible liar, Jon.” The man had to be honest with her. They were both conspiring to kill the Khal. They of all people had to trust each other.

“I will live,” he breathed. “May take a few weeks, but I will heal. The healers said I won’t lose the arm.”

“Good,” she smiled. “Good. Won’t care for you to have a stub of an arm. Would make you look unsightly.”

He smiled. He was so gorgeous when he smiled. She should make more jests more often. “Well, I will have some terrible scars to be certain.  Perhaps you will have to chop it off regardless.”

“I’ll take the scars,” she said.

“Drogo says he wants to give you a cloak of the beast.”

She nodded. “I know. He says it was a hrakkar, and that his arrows were what fell the beast. He says I should consider it a gift, on the eve of his triumph.”

“His arrows did some work,” Jon frowned. “But Ghost was the one that actually killed it. He pulled out the guts with his jaws.”

She kissed him on the cheek. There was a rag in a bowl of water that was filled with petals. She rung it and laid it across Jon’s forehead. “Then I shall wear it out of love, instead of duty. Why did Drogo drag you on that hunt?”

“For talk, mostly. Says he should have listened to me.” Jon turned from her. “About the boy. I should have let Drogo die on the field.”

She laid her hand on Jon’s cheek and turned him to  face her. “Then it would be _you_ who would be dead, and I under suspicion. And neither would know the other’s love. You did what you could, Jon. It was not your fingers that robbed the boy of life.”

“I could have done more. Should have done more. Maybe I could have intercepted Cohollo on the road.”

Dany narrowed her eyes. “Now you are talking foolishness. What else did Drogo speak of? Or had he been consumed by guilt?” She half-hoped that he was. A clouded mind would be easier to fool. _But an innocent shouldn’t die for my happiness._

“He wants me to take one of your handmaidens as a wife. He wants to honor me with a son.”

Dany smiled. “He doesn’t need to do that. You will take Doreah.”

Jon’s eyes went wide. “Dany, what-“

“Listen when you are being spoken to,” she said firmly. “She was a pillow slave in Lys before Illyrio Mopatis bought her. I suppose that gave her something of a sharp eye. She knows.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “She knows what?”

Dany sighed. “Of you and me. And she managed to guess of our intents.”

Jon rose from the cushions of the pillows, groaning as she did so. She tried to force him down but Jon wouldn’t have it. “Dany!” he hissed between his teeth. “This circle used to be just the two of us. Now it involves one of your handmaidens – that were bought by Illyrio I should add!”

“I know what she is, Jon,” she said. “She is my handmaiden and friend. In the first weeks, she was my constant companion. I trust her.”

“With your life, because that is what you are doing.”

“No,” she said. “The only one I do is standing before me. Head on the pillows, Jon.” He sighed in defeat, and leaned back on the cushions. “But she is my friend. And her eye caught something else. Something I was just suspecting…and hoping.” She remembered Doreah’s words. They rang with truth, but Dany could not see herself lying to Jon. _Trust. We must build this on trust._ She cradled his bandaged hand in hers, and she laid it on her belly. Jon looked to her in confusion. For a second. Then his eyes went so wide Dany was certain they would roll out.

“No,” he said in a breath. “Truly?”

“Truly,” she smiled, and the word made her feel so warm in her chest. “It had been a month since I bled last. It was the day before I rode out for Qohor. Drogo has lain with me only once since then, too concerned with his battles and murders of little boys. While you and I-“ There was more than just that one night. She took him riding on the Dothraki Sea. There was one time that they laid beneath the starry sky while Drogo and his bloodriders was feasting. Dany had more than enough learned of Jon’s embrace by now. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that my breasts haven’t been quite so small and delicate.”

“I, well” he coughed. Dany almost wanted to laugh. “I have.”

“And on the day that Drogo announced his march, the sky was lit by the comet.”

Jon nodded. “I remember. It was like a flaming arrow cutting through the night. I couldn’t _not_ see it.” Dany wondered what the rest of the world thought of the sight. The Dothraki considered it an omen for war and victory, and Quaithe and all her shadowbinders had insisted that now was the time for Drogo to end the Dosh Khaleen. She heard Viserys scream and yell at how the Dothraki should be sailing west, instead of riding east. It was the sign of the dragon, he had insisted. _I was once so fearful of him. Now I can only fear for him_. Dany did not know how long she could keep Viserys safe.

“And there was a book amongst Jorah’s gift about the stars and the gods that reside with them. A comet is more than just fire. It is ice as well.” She cupped Jon’s cheek. “Ice and fire, Jon. The fires of the dragons and the snows of the North. It’s not an omen of blood. It’s a sign of us.”

Jon gripped her hand and kissed her. He tasted of sweet and blood, and she loved it. “I love you,” he breathed.

“I know. I shall need to take Drogo to bed. Eagerly.” The words were poison in her mouth. “Then word needs to spread that I am having the Khal’s child.”

“Until you give birth to mine.” Jon frowned. “I’ll kill him before it comes to that.”

“No, you won’t,” she said sternly. “I never knew my mother and father. And you went without your mother’s love. Our child will not know the same fate.” She thought of the house with the red door. Ser Willem Darry’s soft touch entered her mind. “Learn some patience. Apparently, the pillow maidens of Lys are worth more than just bedding.” Jon looked at her curiously. “Doreah insists that she knows of silent deaths. Slow deaths. She promised to procure the ingredients. I just need to…have Drogo taste it. Frequently, and often. I am his wife. Giving him wine is not so strange.”

“Poison.” Jon said it with distaste. “That is a woman’s weapon.”

“And I am the Princess of Dragonstone, with no armies or dragons to do my battles for me. And the one man who would be willing to throw his life away for my sake is a treasure beyond price. We make do with the weapons we have, Jon. You have your sword and Ghost. Let me have Doreah and her poisons.”

Jon sunk his head into the mass of pillows. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Can you trust her?”

“I have to.” She remembered the words Doreah swore to her. “I do,” she said with confidence. “Doreah is our friend.”

“Then I trust her. How long before she can-“

“Get the poisons?” She smiled wryly. “Once we return from Vaes Dothrak. I can get Drogo used to the idea of sipping wine I give him. I just need you to be patient. Wait for our son.”

“Our son? How can you be so certain?”

“Because,” she said, “our first night together I prayed to your gods. The Old Gods of Westeros. I begged for a child from them. A boy.” _A prince._

“You…prayed to my gods?”

She smiled. “Of course. Should I not take my beloved’s gods as my own?”

“Dany,” he laughed, “you don’t pray to the Old Gods. You don’t ask them for boons.”

“Then what do you do for them?”

Jon considered that for a moment. “You go to them with what is on your shoulders, what clouds your heart. You sit beneath their shade, and you listen to the swaying leaves and the ripples in the pool.”

“And you do what?”

“You wait.” Jon gently caressed her hand. “Until they give you an answer.”

 

**THE SHE-WOLF OF WINTERFELL**

 

Arya was convinced that she hated cats, especially those with one ear and a coat darker than black.

She made careful and deliberate steps down the hall, using the balls of her feet to stay quiet and creeping. Mother would have been horrified at the amount of cats that called the Red Keep home, but that suited Syrio’s purposes just fine. Arya was covered in scratches and claw deep cuts, but they were all a lesson. “Every hurt is a death, and every death is a lesson,” Syrio would tell her. He’d douse the cuts in Myrish fire, and the pain would be so much that Arya would bite her lip to keep from yelling. Syrio would tsk, and send her back on her way.

“Come find me when you have caught all of the cats in the Keep.” And Arya was determined.

Before the first day, Arya thought catching cats would be easy. They were fast, but Arya was certain she was faster. Everyone called her “Arya Underfoot” for a reason. As a girl, she was always racing under all the benches at Winterfell, and as an older girl of five and ten she was always able to surprise her brothers. But now Robb was Lord of Winterfell, Bran and Rickon stuck in the North, and Jon was someplace in Essos.

Arya learned that catching cats was anything but easy. Arya may have been called Underfoot, but cats would be caught anywhere but in her hands. Her cuts and scratches were the proof to it. Her first target was the cook’s fat cat. Easy, she had thought. She was certain that something so fat and slow would not be able to outrace her.

She was wrong. But persistence proved a good teacher and she got the fat thing wiggling in her arms. Arya brought the fat cat to Syrio, who smiled and said “Get more”. And she did: Arya got fat cats and thin ones, cats with bright coats and those with dim ones, cats with one eye and those that were missing half of a tail. She grabbed cats of all shapes and sizes and lengths, and every time she would bring one back to Syrio, as the cat scratched and protested against her arms, Syrio would just smile and tell her to get more.

Until one day he told her to get the last one. It was the one cat that Arya could never manage to catch: the black tom with a missing ear. She had heard all the stories about the black tom. How he was the real king of the castle, because no cat snatcher could ever net him. How he once stole a chicken right from under Tywin Lannister, and the King had laughed so hard his face went as bright as a blueberry. Some even said that it was Princess Rhaenys’ cat, who managed to escape her mistress’ fate during the siege.

But Arya didn’t care for stories. She just wanted to snatch the damn thing so that Syrio Forel could douse her in Myrish fire and Arya could go back to her water dancing lessons.

Arya had learned her first lesson well; catching cats was not easy, and getting this black tom would be harder than them all. So, she prepared. She stalked and she watched. She made notes of where the cat liked to tread, which paws it favored when scared, which part of the castle the tom preferred over others. She did this for three days, avoiding the gaze of guard and Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella and Sansa and all the rest. She didn’t care how covered in cuts and bruises she was. She didn’t mind how dirty and filthy she looked. She didn’t think on what Mother would say.

Arya had a cat to catch.

The black tom preferred the deepest and darkest parts of the Red Keep, and that is where Arya went on the fifth day. She remembered what Syrio would tell her. _Swift as a deer, quicker than death_. She crept through those halls so dark she could hardly see her fingers. There were braziers, but they were only half-lit and possessed a trickle of a flame.

As she turned the corner, she found it. The black cat was creeping between the walls when it looked on her. Its golden eyes gazed at her, and its one ear twitched. Then she leapt for it. It went left, then right and left, then right again, and it scurried under her feet. Arya twisted and turned and tumbled and dashed, and each time the crafty tom managed to just escape her. She raced after it, her eyes narrowed and focused.

She saw the cat sprint to the right. She raced after it, and found herself staring down a flight of spiraling stairs. She could not see anything past the first few steps. There were hooks for braziers, but they were empty. The stairs led to darkness. Arya took a breath. _As fierce as a wolverine_. She walked down the stairs, her hands trailing along the masonry of the wall. She counted each step. Twenty-three…forty-seven…ninety-two. Then Arya stepped onto a flat and smooth surface.

Arya was surrounded by the darkness. There was no light anywhere. No braziers, or lights of sun slipping through cracks. Nothing. Arya closed her eyes and controlled her breathing. _As swift as a deer, as mighty as a bear. As brave as a wolf_. She remembered the words that Syrio Forel told her. Then she opened her eyes, and the dark didn’t seem nearly as bad. Her eyes could see, just a little, just a pinch. But it was enough. She walked down the hall.

For a while, Arya heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing. It was like she was the only thing in the entire world, that the stairs were a portal to a realm of the dead. Then her hands felt something, cold and hard and smooth. She focused her sight, she remembered the words. And she saw the eyes, hollow and empty, staring back at her.

Arya was surrounded by monsters. They were still, and looked as hard as rock, but they were monsters all the same. They had massive teeth and horns. Arya closed her eyes. She remembered the words. _I shall count to one-hundred. The fear will pass over me, and only Arya will remain._ She counted to fifty before she peeked with her eyes.

The monsters were gone, but their bones remained. They were skulls, Arya realized. All of them larger than her, the Mountain even, and these were just the heads. The revelation forged a lump in Arya’s throat. _These are dragon skulls. The skulls that used to hang above the Iron Throne_. But now the Targaryens were just as dead as their dragons, and their bones were stashed here instead.

The skulls could not hurt her. Dead was dead. But there was something about the skulls, about the darkens in their hollowed-out eyes, that filled Arya with fear. She backed away, his hand trembling. She willed it into a fist, but even that shook.

She thought she was alone. _It is just me and the cat and the dead dragons_. She could hear only the wind.

She was proven wrong a moment later. She heard the screeching of iron, a door that went unoiled for too long. And then footsteps. She wasn’t afraid of people – she was the daughter of the Hand of the King. But for some reason fear gripped at Arya. She scurried behind the biggest skull she saw, and she peeked around the corner.

They were lit by torchlight. One was bald, and she could smell perfume roll off of him. The other was the fattest man Arya had ever seen, fatter even than Wyman Manderly and his son Wylis and Wendel, and they looked like walruses. His beard was so golden and shining Arya was half certain it was gold that was glued to his fat face. It was the bald man that held the torch, while the fat man walked with his arms behind his back.

“And he has found one of the bastards,” the bald one said. “The forger’s apprentice. It won’t be long until he discovers all the rest, and then his honor will compel him to act.”

“A fool’s honor,” the fat one spoke. “And it will compel his family to war. You mentioned something of his son?”

“His second youngest. Failed at murdering him once, and then they made a mummer’s folly of the second. The lions have made a mess out of everything. Soon the wolves will be at the throat of the lions, and the stags will be on the side of the wolf.”

“I doubt it. The bastard has gotten the Targaryen fat with child, if Mormont is to be trusted. Ser Jorah _is_ to be trusted, is he?”

“As trusted as any birds I possess. Jon Snow may be a father to a prince, but he will also be a father to his family’s folly. When the King hears of this, he will turn on Ned Stark.” Arya felt fear take hold in her throat. _Jon is a father? He wed a Targaryen? That can’t be right. Jon would never turn on Father. Everyone knows what the Targaryens did to Uncle Brandon and Grandfather._ She remembered how Jon would ruffle her hair and call him “little sister”, and how much Arya would laugh as she would tackle him. Jon gave her Needle and advised her to always stick it with the pointy end. She almost wanted to cry. _Jon would never betray us._

“This is not right. The time is wrong for war. We must delay. The Golden Company is not ready. Delay.”

“Ready or not, war is coming. How would you have me delay this? The Imp has been kidnapped by Lady Catelyn, and that has outraged the Lord of Lions. And Jamie Lannister has a queer love for his brother. They will march north, and that means into the Riverlands. That will draw in the Tullys. So we have the fish, the lion, the wolves and the stags, all rolling together in this brawl. You say _delay,_ I say make _haste_. Even the best of jugglers can only keep a thousand balls flying in the air for so long. This black dragon of ours needs to be ready, and he needs to be ready soon. You must encourage Khal Drogo to sail west. And the Gryphon needs to prepare his not-son for war. Let the keeper of coins learn it is time to count the sharpness of his steel.”

“That is folly. By the time he has set sail, Daenerys Targaryen will have given birth to Jon Snow’s child, and all three of their heads will be mounted on pikes. The boy should have listened to me and joined with our black dragon. He would have been a boon for the North. Now he is doomed. And Daenerys was such a sweet thing. To be undone by love? A tragedy. Our Prince of Monsters will be without both an army and a sister. And I imagine a head as well, knowing the Dothraki. Guilty by association.”

“A tragedy for our plans, indeed. Then adapt we shall. Without Daenerys and her brother, here is what we shall do.” And their voices faded into the darkness. Then their forms were taken by the shadows. Arya scampered away from the cover of the skulls. Whatever fear the dead dragons put in her, the words by the men were far worse. _Jon is in trouble. Jon is going to die. His child is going to die. We need to help him._

 _I have to follow. A water dancer is swifter than them all. As quick as a deer, as silent as death._ She saw the lightest trickle of light from the torch. She used that as her guide, using all of her senses to guide her through the halls. But it was dark as pitch, and that distant drop of orange flame was the only thing to show her the way. Maybe she was too slow, too scared, too careful, not devious enough, but the light did fade, and Arya found herself alone. She felt her eyes water. _Too slow. Jon needed my help and I was too slow. Jon is going to die! His child is going to die! And I was too slow to help!_ She pounded the nearest wall…and hit not hard stone, but soft timber. She used her fingers to feel it, and then she found a rusted ring. She pulled, the wood groaned, the iron hinges creaked against the stone wall, and then Arya was blinded by the afternoon light.

Squinting, a hand over her face, Arya stepped forward. She slid and yelled as she fell into the water. The water was dank and brown, and it smelled more than even the most worst of alley cats. She was in the sewers, she knew it. She wanted to gag, but she held it in. A water dancer was in full control of her body. That is what Syrio told her. She swam to the surface and saw the round walls. Keeping her nose as far away from the shit-water as she could, she swam along the surface until she saw iron steps poking out of the wall. She climbed. Once she was on solid ground, Arya shook her head. Water went everywhere, and she rung her thick brown hair like it was a towel. She wiped the fluid from her face. She climbed to her feet and walked towards the light.

She left the mouth of the sewers, where it was pouring into the river. She was miles from the castle. The Red Keep towered over her in the distance, but Arya knew she was still in King’s Landing. It would be a long walk back to Father, and Arya didn’t entirely know the way, but she would find it. One can’t get too lost in King’s Landing if you are trying to reach the Red Keep.

But she couldn’t go back stinking as she did. Between the sweet from the cat hunt, and the filth from the sewers, Arya could hardly stand it. She stripped down to her small clothes and twisted her clothes between her fists. The dark water pooled at her feet. Then she leapt into the river and swam, letting the cool waters wash away the filth on her until Arya knew she was clean. Then she dressed and made her walk back to Father.

It was almost night when she stood before one of the gates to the Keep. There were two gold cloaks guarding this particular entry. It must have been one of the side entrances, because Arya knew that dozens of the city’s guards would have been protecting the main entrance. “Away with you whore,” one of them sneered. “Cuckling on us won’t get you into the castle.”

Arya scrunched her nose. She wanted to punch him right there and then. “I am no whore! I live here!”

The other cloakman laughed. “Yeah, and I get to fuck the Queen. Off with you, cunt.”

“I am _no_ cunt. My father is the Hand of the King. I am Arya Stark. Let. Me. Through.”

The first guard waved his hands away from her. “Off with you. You lie as bad as you look. Go suck someone else for a copper.”

Arya’s hands were balled into a fist at her side. “Let me pass, or I’ll kick you so hard between the legs your balls will pop out of your ears.”

The second Cloak narrowed his eyes. He raised his spear. “Get out you-“

“Arya?” It was Jory, Father’s captain of the guard. His long brown hair was tied behind his face. “Is that you? What are you doing out there?”

The two Golden Cloaks looked at each other before turning to Jory Cassel. “This is..that’s Arya Stark?”

Jory shot the man a dismissive look. “Of course it’s Arya Stark. Who else would it be?” Arya stomped right past the two Cloaks. “Where have you been? Gods girl, you look like you got into a fight with a Dothraki.”

“Never mind what I look like. Where is my father?”

Jory rubbed at his chin. “Should be right where I left him. In his chambers. He was reading the biggest book I have ever seen.”

“Take me to him.” Jory offered no protest, and with a ‘Right this way’, he led her to the Tower of the Hand. It was not long when Jory guided her to Father’s solar. Jory was right – he _was_ reading the biggest book that Arya had ever seen. If a man dropped it on a babe, he’d probably be hanged for murder. It was the smelliest book Arya had ever sniffed as well. The books were yellow with age, and Arya could smell the mildew before Jory had opened the door. She tried to see if she could out make out any of the letters as Father listened to Jory’s report, but she was too far away and the words were too faded. Then Jory left with a bow. “Arya where have you been? I was about to send half of my guard out to look for you.”

“In the castle. Below the castle. In the sewers. It doesn’t matter. Listen Father-“

Father scrunched his face, and his gray eyes hardened. “Arya, you listen to me. You can’t-“

“Jon’s in trouble!”

Father’s eyes widened. “Jon? What is this you’re talking about?”

Arya took in a breath. _Let the fear pass._ She had to make this sound as logical as possible. “Syrio Forel had me hunting cats. I have caught all of them but one, a black tom with only a single ear. I tracked it into the deepest halls of the castle.” Father’s eyes began to look concerned, but he did not interrupt. “I got lost in there, and then I found dragon skulls. A room just full of them. They must have been the ones that the King had pulled from the throne room. Then I heard voices.

“So I hid. And I saw a bald man that smelled as sweet as any of the ladies that Sansa loves to talk to, and the fattest man ever. He was bigger than any of the Manderlys, Father. They talked of the war, of lions and the wolves. That has to be us and the Lannisters, I just know it. And Father, they talked of Jon. They say he is going to be a father.”

Father slid into his chair. “Jon? A father?” He leaned his face on his hand.

Arya nodded. “They say that it was a Targaryen. Daenerys was her name. She was the Mad King’s daughter, wasn’t she?” Father’s eyes went wide, and Arya knew there was doubt racing in his head. But she knew what she heard. “Father, they say he is going to die. He, Daenerys and their child. That someone named Khal Drogo is going to kill them.”

“Arya.” And Father took on a tone that she had never heard before. It filled her with fear. His eyes narrowed on her. “Swear to me that everything you said is true. That this is not some thrice damned trick.”

“It’s not,” she said quickly. “I swear it on everything. On the Old Gods, on the Seven, on any god you want me to swear it to.” Father was rubbing at his beard. “Father, we need to help Jon. I know he has a child with a Targaryen, and that the Targaryens are evil and wicked, but they can’t all be like that if Jon loved one of them. We have to help him.”

“We will,” Father said. “I promise you Arya, I will save Jon. By everything I possess, I will save Jon. I’m bringing him home. He and his child, and the girl too if I need to. But Arya, you must do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“Speak word of this to no one. We are on the very edge of a knife. Do you understand? Speak of this to no one. Not even to your Dancing Master.”

Arya nodded. “To no one.”

 

**THE HAND OF THE KING**

 

“The whore is _pregnant_!” Robert was as red as blood, and his fist slammed into the table. The ink wells shook with the force, and any discussion was silenced.

“Think on what you are saying, Robert.” Ned kept his hands balled behind his back. He couldn’t show just how much he knew. _Gods, this place has turned me into almost as much of a serpent as the rest of them._ “She is a girl. You are talking of murdering a little girl.”

“Am I not plain to you, Lord Stark?” the King growled. “I told you this would happen, just as we began to ride from out of Winterfell. I told you, but you wouldn’t listen. She wed Khal Drogo and his Golden Horde. They have the means to invade. They have Ghiscari siege engineers, and Qhorvik Unsullied, and by Gods, he isn’t like the other Dothraki. He doesn’t care about how his horses can’t drink from the sea. He will sail!”

“And she is no child, Lord Stark,” Lord Renly Baratheon began. “She is almost twenty. Twenty long years to hold a grudge for the throne that was taken from her.”

“And twenty years in which nothing happened. You speak of a shadow of a threat, twenty years removed. This Khal Drogo could possibly sail west. Or he could march east. Lord Varys, where is he now?”

The bald man smiled. “He marches eastward, from what I heard of my birds. He will rid the world of Vaes Dothrak, to make room for his new capitol. The Dosh Khaleen are finished after the fall of Khal Orolo.”

“And you think he will invade, when he has an empire to rule? Robert, be reasonable.”

“Reasonable?” The King looked like the Warrior himself with all the fury on his face. “Reasonable! Reason is the only purpose here, Stark! He has an army! And soon he will have a son!”

“An army,” Lord Varys replied, “but lacking in motivation. Your Grace, Khal Drogo is not the father of the child.”

Ned’s blood ran cold. _No_. _The Spider knows?_ Of course he knew. There wasn’t any bit of knowledge that escaped Varys’ web. Arya spoke of a bald man. It had to be the Master of Whispers, sitting before Ned with his powdered hands.

“If it’s not Khal Drogo’s child that is growing in that cunt’s womb, then _who_?”

Varys looked to Ned. “Ser Jorah tells me that it is Jon Snow who is the father.”

Ned had to fake shock. He allowed his lips to tremble. “My son has lain with Daenerys Targaryen?”

Lord Varys nodded, his fingers interlocked below his chin. “Indeed, Lord Stark. A shock to us all, I’m certain. I’m sure you raised your baseborn son to be honorable and loyal, and maybe he was within the walls of Winterfell. But you sent him to Essos, and such thoughts must not have been nearly as pleasing as the warmth of the Targaryen’s thighs.”

“No,” Ned said firmly. _Promise me, Ned_. He remembered the promise Lyanna begged out of him. He remembered when he held Jon in his arms for the very first time. “You would trust the word of Ser Jorah Mormont? We all know that he has a grudge against me, for forcing him to flee like a craven. You would favor the words of a slaver and a poacher?”

Robert frowned. Ned could still see the pink rage that clung to his cheeks, but doubt was clinging to this dark eyes. He needed to fuel it. _They cannot believe that Jon is the father._ “What proof does Jorah Mormont have? I doubt the dragonspawn let him watch while she fucked.”

“Admittedly,” the eunuch said with a sigh, “Ser Jorah has no proof. Or as much as can be said in such things. But Daenerys Targaryen _is_ fond of the boy. The Mormont has a keen eye, that is certain.”

“Suspicions,” Ned said adamantly. “Shadows of an idea. The child is just as likely Khal Drogo’s. There is no wolf-dragon in the girl’s womb. Has Jorah even seen my son laying with her?” Varys shook his head.

“But he has sworn himself to the Targaryens,” Renly said. He leaned forward, his fingers woven together. “Maybe he has lain with her. Maybe he hasn’t. That doesn’t change what he did.”

The King was fuming, his nostrils flaring. Robert looked as he did on the Trident: all fury, all wrath. “The boy dies. The girl dies. Your son betrayed us, Ned.”

“Lord Eddard,” Lord Renly said with sympathy, “I understand this must be hard for you. He is your son, and I know you must love him. But he betrayed everyone at this table.”

“If this is true,” Ned said, “there must be another way.”

“There is no other way,” Robert fumed.

“Peace. Let me bring my son home, he and the Princess. If Jon swore to protect her, he had to have good reason. It could be the road to paving a firm alliance between us and the Targaryens. Remove the threat of war with a good gesture.”

“Peace?” Robert spoke the word like it was poison. “Peace he says! Where was this peace when Rhaegar kidnapped and raped your sister! Where was peace when the Mad King murdered your father and brother! You are grasping at fool songs, Ned! You want peace? Then I want the Princess’ head on a silver plate! Her and her fool brother. And your son.”

“It is a terrible thing we must do,” Lord Varys began, “but those of us in power must sometimes do terrible things. For the good of the realm.”

“It is a necessity, Lord Eddard,” Renly said. He leaned forward on his chair. “If the Princess gives birth, she will be a threat. A true threat. Nothing encourages a woman like becoming a mother.”

It was only Ser Barristan who shook his head. “The Princess is young. She may not yet have succumbed to her father’s madness. Lord Stark proposes a path to peace. We should attempt it. And if war comes, we should face it on a battlefield. Not behind an assassin’s cloak.”

Ned looked to Littlefinger, for all the good it did him. The Master of Coin sighed. “I must side on the path to reason, Lord Stark. The Princess must die, along with your son. I am sorry.”

“No,” Ned said. His gray eyes looked at Robert with steel. “No. He is my son.” _He is Rhaegar’s son, but I raised him and loved him. He is Lyanna’s son. “Promise me, Ned”, she had asked._ “I will not be the hand that holds the axe over his head.” He pulled the pin that symbolized his station away from his chest and threw it at the King. “Find someone else to be your butcher. I will do what I must to preserve my family. Even if it means inviting a Targaryen into my halls.”

He marched away. “You damn fool. You honorable fool! Go and run back to Winterfell! Go back to your frozen halls! And if I dare discover you wisped that Targaryen whore to your keep, I’ll raze it! You think the March on Pyke was bloody! You know nothing, Eddard Stark!” Robert’s roars could be heard down the hall.

“Vaes Sash is not Vaes Dothrak.” He could hear their words echo. “We are not limited to just poisons, My Lords. An assassin’s blades can suffice just as well…”

When Ned was back in his solar, he considered what he should do. He had to leave King’s Landing, and soon. Robert wouldn’t wait for him to take action. Not when it involved the Targaryens. No doubt he and that circle of serpents were already forming a plan to steal Jon and Daenerys of their lives. _And their child. Gods Jon, of all the woman to have a child with, did it have to be a Targaryen?_ He thought of Rhaegar then. He had thrown the realm into war in the name of love. Ned didn’t know if the dragon prince had Lyanna, but he couldn’t picture Rhaegar as the type that would rape and kidnap. Jon was more like his father than Ned would have hoped.

The realm was in debt. To the Lannisters, to the Iron Bank. All of the kingdoms were at friction with each other. It was half a miracle that Dorne didn’t summon its banners after what happened to Elia Martell and her children. Ned still remembered Rhaenys, with the dozens of bloody holes that were carved into her small body. And Aegon was only a babe, and his head was crushed against the wall.

Was this fate? He had brought the seed of his enemy into his house, and that same seed was now propelling the realm into war once again. _No, he is Jon. He is my son. He is more than the son of Rhaegar. He is Robb’s brother. He is the one that Arya loved beyond all else. The one that counseled Brann when he was hurting. The bastard that stood tall and brave when he needed to be. Jon is my son. He would not do this without cause. The Princess must not be like her father. Jon would never do such a thing if she were._

_They are all were worth saving. Jon, Daenerys, and their child. I will save them all._

It did not take long for Jory Cassel to arrive. “You summoned, My Lord?”

Ned nodded. “Do you know what has happened?”

“Only rumors, and shadows of them.”

“Then I shall shed light on them. The Targaryen Princess is pregnant with Jon’s child.”

“Jon?” Jory gasped. “Jon Snow? The little boy I knew? Jon would never do such a thing.”

“The Council is not convinced, but I am. I need to save my son from the King’s wrath. And their child.”

“That means war.”

“War was already coming,” Ned breathed. “I could feel it on my neck every day. I was fighting against a storm. Now we must weather it. Jon needs to come home, to Winterfell.”

“The Princess too?”

“The Princess as well. I could not tear a child from a mother’s breast. What two men do you trust above all?”

Jory bit at his lip. “Harwin and Alyn. Harwin is as fine of a sword as any in the North. And Alyn is young, but has a good heart. I trust them both.”

“Good. I will give you fifteen golden stags. You will leave tonight for Essos. There must be ships bound for any of the Free Cities. Take whichever ones leaves by nightfall.”

“You would have _me?_ My Lord, I need to be by your side.”

“And in most cases I would have it. But not in this. I need to ensure I can get Sansa and Arya way from here. I cannot leave, so I must send someone that I can trust. I trust you, Jory. I am putting the future of my family in your hands. Do not fail me in this.”

“I promise.” Jory sucked in a breath as he put a fist over his heart. “By the Gods, and the Weirwoods, I will bring Jon and his Targaryen girl home. You will hold your grandchild in your arms, My Lord. I swear it.”

“Good.” Ned nodded. Everything was moving too fast, too quickly. He had so much to prepare for. Moat Cailin had to be manned, word had to reach the Lords to prepare, he had to attend to Sansa and Arya… “Go and find Harwin and Alyn. Jon and Daenerys Targaryen are with Khal Drogo. He marches on Vaes Dothrak, wherever that is. Take flight. Now.”

 

**THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE**

 

The heart was bloody and steaming, and the heat contrasted with the cold of the forest. Khal Drogo was red up to his elbows, the blood dripping from his torso. He was dressed in the old garment, only in horse leathers. His bronze torso was bare and naked, and all of his scars danced across his form. Behind him were his bloodriders, all of them leaning against the corpse of the stallion they had just killed.

The stallion of whose heart she now had to consume.

“It is the oldest of traditions, and the most sacred,” Virenii had explained the night before. “Even if there are no Dosh Khaleen to oversee it, you must consume the heart. All of it. If you do not, it will be considered a terrible omen. Your firstborn will die in the womb, or be malformed.”

It was all nonsense. It was absurd. But for so long as Khal Drogo drew breath, she was Khaleesi. And despite his intent on wiping out the stagnant traditions of the Dothraki, Drogo was still bound to some of them. And that included forcing his wife to eat a raw and bloody heart.

_But you cannot force me to give you a son. That honor is for Jon, and we will raise our family away from your corpse._

Dany laid her hand across her swollen belly. It had to have been two months now since she and Jon had made this life together. Cold and itchy sweat trickled all over her. She could feel everyone watching her – Drogo especially, with his dark eyes. For so long as he gazed over her, Dany felt that the conspiracy would be unveiled right then and there, and she and Jon would be ripped apart. She felt Viserys’ gaze, in all his quiet disgust. She knew the thoughts going through his mind, how his horse slut sister was being given more than he ever had. _But I am no horselord’s slut. I am the Princess of Dragonstone. And my man is a son of the North_.

Of all the eyes that looked on her, it was Jon’s that gave her comfort. He looked at her with his sullen look. Then he nodded to her.

She lifted the heart to her teeth and ripped into the raw flesh. The taste was so terrible she wanted to gag. _I am the blood of the dragon. My child is the blood of the dragon._ She told herself those words a hundred times as the smell seemed to overwhelm her. A hundred times she almost retched it all up, but she never did.

She ripped it apart, slowly and surely. She felt the raw flesh get stuck in her teeth. The hot blood trickled down her near naked form. She was forced to wear painted vests and horse leggings. The only comfort was that Jon could see her, but she felt weak in how much of her was shown to strangers.

 _My child is dragon and wolf. Ice and fire._ She sank her teeth into the heart. Her fingers were sticky with the blood. _I am the Dragon’s Daughter. I am the Dragon’s Sister._ With every word, she swallowed and chewed. With every word, she bit and ripped. 

Then there was nothing left in her hands, but clumps of meat. She felt heavy, the weight of her about to collapse right then. But she pushed herself up and stood before them all. Before the Dothraki, before Khal Drogo, before Ser Jorah, before her brother.

Before Jon Snow. He had a twitch of a smile. Pride swelled through her.

Then there were cheers and roars of approval. Drogo approached her and kissed her. She swallowed her respect and kissed him back. Despite the hot blood that dripped from her, she felt only coldness. Drogo broke away. “A son!” he roared. “I will have a son! A khalakka for my empire!” The roar of the crowd grew higher until it was deafening. She felt the swelling beneath her breasts. _A son. Could I give Jon a son? Jon could teach him what it meant to be good, what it meant to have honor. How to ride, how to hunt, what it meant to be a man. And I could teach him how to be a Prince of Dragonstone. I could do for him what Viserys did for me, and tell him about his family._

Khal Drogo led her away from the grove. Dany could see the edges of Vaes Dothrak towering over the forests and blades of grass. They were less than a day’s ride from the city. Khal Drogo had the heart eating ceremony as a way to mock the Dosh Khaleen. Right outside their gates, and Drogo performed one of their most sacred rituals in their absence. Drogo didn’t need the Dosh Khaleen. He only needed a son.

A son he would never have.

Khal Drogo laughed and drank with his bloodriders, celebrating his good fortune. Mare wine dripped from his dark beard as his bloodriders gave their highest respects for having a son. All of it were based off of a ritual that Dany had struggled through. She was the one that had to eat through a raw heart. She had to swallow every piece of stinking flesh. Drogo only needed to watch. He didn’t even put a child in her.

Dany was led by a separate procession to the Womb of the World. It was the largest lake within the Grass Sea, and it rested just outside of Vaes Dothrak. Jhiqui told her that this was the place where the first men were born, and that they arrived in the world riding on their horses. Supposedly there was a well paved road that led from the heart of the city to the Womb, but Khal Drogo was camped on the opposite end. Dany’s khas cut their way through the trees and tall grasses. When she stood over a hill that overlooked the lake, Dany dismissed her riders. “I will wash here. I will return on my own.” With a kick of her ankles, she nudged Silver towards the lake.

The blood had dried on her. She felt heavy with it, her hair bound in dried and bloody clumps. Her fingers felt like they were sealed together. She stepped onto the shores of the lake, allowing the soft dirt to soak into her toes. Jon stepped out from the tall grasses. She reached out to him, and he wrapped his hands around her. His fingers combed through her hair. He didn’t care how filthy she looked.

“You should get cleaned,” he said. His thumb rubbed itself along her belly.

“You would like to see that. All men must be pigs.” Jon smiled.

She stripped herself and went into the lake. The waters washed all of the filth away from her. She cupped her fingers into a bowl and let the waters of the lake clean her. The water turned a thin shade of red around her. Her hair was damp in thin strands of silver and gold. She turned to Jon and saw a thin smile on his face. She motioned to him. “Come,” she said. Jon loosened the strings of his breaches, and with him tearing off his shirt, he was as naked as she was. He met her in the lakes of the water, and he was in her just as quickly. He was bolder than he should be. Secluded as they were, they were still surrounded by enemies. But he had the right of it – none were allowed to trespass onto the shores of the Womb, except for Khals and their Khaleesis. But Drogo was away, drinking to his imminent triumph.

That moment was nothing like their first. That night in Qohor, they were both so clumsy. Despite all of their desires, neither could see they knew the other. But in the past few weeks, she and Jon had done their best to educate the other. In the waters of the Lake, Jon’s caress was all knowing, and she rolled her hips in tune with him. In just a few moments he was spent, and she could feel the pleasure swerve through her.

They did not dress. They were sprawled along the lakeshore, the calm waters dancing against her toes. Jon’s fingers were trailing across her belly. She loved these moments, when it was just her and him, both of them entwined together. When he was looking at her belly with affection.

“Have you thought of a name?” he asked.

“I’ve been more worried about making sure he lives.”

“He?”

Dany smiled. “Does it matter?”

“Not to me,” Jon said before he kissed her knuckles. But then there was a concerned look on his face. “Are you certain of Doreah?”

“I am,” Dany said. She had no doubts. “What is wrong with you?”

“We could flee, right now. The Khalasar is divided. We could dress and ride as far and as fast as we can.”

“And we would be hunted down,” Dany said firmly. “I have spent my entire life being hunted. I will not subject our child to that same fate. And what of Ser Jorah? Doreah, Irri and Jhiqui? They are all innocent in this. My brother?”

Jon frowned. “Your brother is innocent of nothing.”

He wasn’t wrong. But Viserys was still her brother. The brother that kept her from the Ususrper’s knives. “He is my brother, Jon. He protected me, fed me, found shelter for me for near on twenty years. Until the day comes where he puts any of our lives in danger, I will not abandon him.”

Jon sighed. “As you say.”

She laid a hand on his cheek. “You need to have patience. This is hard, I know. But when we are old and gray and home, and we can count the numbers of our children and their children, this will all be worth it. I promise.”

He stroked her hair. “I know. But everyday Drogo lives is another day you are in danger.”

“You are in danger as well, Jon.” _And your life has meaning. To me._

They remained in silence for a time, Jon holding her in his arms. She could feel all the scars on him. The crescent that ran across his neck, the thick lines that danced down his leg and arm. The craters on his right arm from the hrakkar. Viserys said that Rhaegar was beautiful and perfect, but Jon was real and flawed. He had the weight of battle on him, of the cost of it. He knew that life wasn’t cheap. Viserys didn’t know how to hold a sword, but Jon’s hands were course with that knowledge.

“Have you thought on the eggs?”

“A little,” she admitted. “When we flee after Drogo’s death, we could sell them. Ser Jorah has told me that they are worth a fortune. Just one of them could give us luxuries for all our lives. And three-“

“Would be enough for an army.” Jon looked at her sternly. It was the Stark look, she had come to realize. Sullen and serious, contemplating the weight of one’s actions. “That is what you were going to say, wasn’t it?”

She could not lie to him. “Yes. I don’t want to die in exile, Jon. I don’t want our children to die in exile. I won’t die in Essos. My brother and I, and our child? We are the last of the Targaryens. I can’t bear that we will end in disgrace.”

“And what of my family? My Father –“

“Rose against mine.”

“Is a good man!” She rose away from him. She knew the time for affections had passed. “You are asking me to turn on my family! My brother Robb, whose only crime was that he loved me? Do you know what your father did?”

Her violet eyes narrowed. “He was betrayed.” She began to dress herself in her royal rags.

“He burned my grandfather! He strangled my uncle! And your brother kidnapped and raped my aunt!”

“Your uncle demanded my brother’s head! Everyone knows Rhaegar was wise and good.”

Jon shook his head. “Damnit Dany, that is Viserys talking. Your father was called the Mad King for a reason. Your family brought ruin on themselves. And you are asking me to make the same mistake.” And here it was, she realized. The lies of the Usurper, coursing from Jon’s lips. Of course he would believe the lies. Eddard Stark would have scratched that into his mind from the beginning. Did the realm know what the lions did to Rhaegar’s children? Her niece and nephew were murdered, Elia Martell raped before her life was ended.

The past was shrouded in deceit and treachery. Jon was only saying what he thought was truth. But Dany knew better. Rhaegar was a good man. He had found love in a woman and the realm sought to rip them apart. Just as what had happened between her and Jon. She knew what it was like, for the world to deny what you want. And for you to spit in the world’s eye and tell it to go fuck itself.

“Let’s talk of this later,” she said. “We have a Khal to kill. We can’t worry about the future.”

Jon sighed. “You’re right. When you are safe… I could write to my father. He would protect us, I know it.”

Dany smiled. “I believe you,” she lied. She wanted to believe him, but Dany knew better. Lord Stark was just another of the Usurper’s dogs. Even if Jon was the best man Dany had ever known, the man she would grow old with, the man she loved and adored, none of that that could redeem his father. She could spare his family, his brothers and sisters. But Eddard Stark and the Usurper and all the rest?

They would only be cleansed in fire and blood.

 

**THE BEGGAR PRINCE**

 

He was surrounded by the stink of horses. The Warlord was pushing his army east. East of Vaes Sash, east of the civilized cities, east beyond the forests of Qohor and beyond all the testaments to the Century of Blood. The Dothraki had made their camp around the city of crones, and for miles all Viserys could hear were the sound of horses and their riders. That, and the shrieks of the caged animals. When Viserys passed by any of them, he would see monkeys with long tails, rodents with coats so rich they would be perfect for a cloak, and birds with the most agonizing squawk that he had ever heard.  Khal Drogo had his men drain the Qohorik woods of every small creature they could wretch their hands on.

And Viserys, for all of his educations, could not fathom as to why. To aid in the siege of Vaes Dothrak, but beyond that he could not be certain.

He watched in the distance as his sister spoke with the bastard. Beneath her garb of horse hairs and glittering stones, her belly was protruding. _There is a dragon inside of her._ No, he had to remind himself, the child that would be born of her would not be a dragon. Not a true Targaryen – Targaryens were supposed to be made from the union of brother and sister. Father had always said so, and grandfather Jaehaerys in all his wisdom arranged the marriage between Father and Mother. That was the truth.

They should not be here. He and Dany should not be trapped in exile across the Narrow Sea. But the Usurper stole everything from him, they were trapped on the other side of the world, and he had to wed Dany to the barbarian. Every night he dreamt as things should be, and every day he woke to the reality of things.

 _Rhaegar, you understand surely why I did what I had to do._ When Illyrio came to him with the proposal, Viserys was mortified, disgusted, outraged. “Heed my council, Your Grace. Khal Drogo is the most fierce battle commander on the continent. Not even the Golden Company can withstand him. If you want an army, then you must simply buy it with your sister. Wed her to him, and you will have your journey home.” He had said the words so simply, and after three days of consideration Viserys had to realize that the man was right.

Some nights, as he heard Dany’s screams as her husband would take her, he wondered what was the harder choice. Selling his mother’s crown, or selling his sister. _It should be my son that grows in her. A true dragon._ He would have bed her with more skill and grace that the warlord could ever imagine or dream.

Viserys would have made a queen out of her, the Queen of the Red Keep, to be adorned in jeweled tiaras and silver dressed of lace and silk. Daenerys should not be dressed in pelts and feathers and gleaming rocks. She should not have to seek out a bastard for a companion.

For weeks, Viserys had his suspicions. Those two were too close, too comfortable by far, for Viserys to not suspect. _You are allowed a paramour. I sold you to his horse fucker, made you a slut that smells of horse. You have the right, even though it should be me that you ask to bed. But the timing is all wrong. Not when Khal Drogo is expecting his son, not when we are surrounded by these barbarians, and certainly not by Jon Snow._

He had hoped, had prayed, had begged the Crone, that his sister had better sense. But after that barbaric rite, where he was forced to watch her devour a horse’s heart like she was kind of savage, he trailed her. Viserys followed her to that lake, and watched as she undressed herself in Jon Snow’s sight. The way he touched her belly, Viserys knew that the child was his. Jon Snow smiled. _I should cut him a smile, a crimson one, in memory of Rhaegar._ Then he watched as Dany took him, and it took all that Viserys possessed to not scream and yell at them both.

She threatens _everything_ by doing this. _Does she not understand? We are linked. I was the one that sold you. If you give Drogo the horns, we are both doomed._

He watched as Jon rode away from her. She was always surrounded by her handmaidens. They were always bobbing their heads and filling her mind with courtesies and respects that she had yet to earn. Never had Viserys seen her sister where one of her attendants was not with her. _Do they know?_ Of course they know, they have to. Dany is too kind, too soft, too trusting for them to not know. She would have been exquisite with her ladies in the Red Keep. If only the Usurper was struck down on the Trident, as it should have been.

He felt his skin prickle with the sweat dancing down his neck. His fine robes of velvet were frayed and torn, caked in dirt and mud. Dany had grown to accustomed to the savages, but he would remember what they were. No matter how filthy they were, Viserys would wear them. He was the Prince of Dragonstone, and he could never forget that. He cannot be complacent.

He would dine with them, he would learn their tongue, he would sleep beneath their roofs, but he shall never become one of them. He can’t take the risk of forgetting the majestic halls of the Red Keep, the smell of the royal garden in the spring, the luscious meals. He could not forget Father or Mother or Rhaegar. He was the only one who could remember them. Dany had never even seen Mother before she passed.

“Your Grace.” Viserys turned and saw Ser Jorah in his approach. He could feel an itch crawl up his neck, and suddenly he regretted not putting on an extra layer of perfume. A dragon should not smell like a servant in the fields. “How do you faire?”

 _Everything is falling apart at the seams._ “All is well.” The lie did not come easy. A king should be honest at all times, regardless of circumstances, regardless of who would hear. But Viserys had lied so many times already. “You are atop a horse, Ser. While I am not.” _A servant should not rise higher than his king. Father told me as such._

“Your sister has made her will known, My King. You will go without a horse. None shall overrule her command, not here, not among her khalasar.”

“I am her brother,” he insisted. “I am your king.”

“Yes, Majesty. That is all true. But among the khalasar, you are lesser than she is. The Golden Horde has culture, but it is not Westeros. It is not even the Free Cities. Their rites must be respected and honored.”

Father’s kinsguard would never think of such talk. They all followed their vows, without question. “You are the first of my kingsguard. You would shrink from your duties?”

“You would risk my life and service for a horse, Majesty?”

“No,” he conceded. “Not for a horse.” _For a throne._ He pulled silvery strands from his face. The wind was howling, warm and bitter to his sweat-streaked skin. He could make out in the distance two massive forms. Stallions, carved from bronze, reining in triumph. “Ser Jorah, you told me that before Khal Drogo there was no culture among these horse breeders.”

“Depends on how you would define ‘culture’, Your Grace. But it is true that for years and years there were no cities among the Dothraki, save for Vaes Dothrak.”

“With no culture, there are no servants, no laborers. Tell me,” he said as he pointed to the massive sculptures. “Where did those come from?”

“From slaves, Majesty. As far as any could remember, so long as there was Vaes Dothrak, there was the Horse Gate. The Dothraki do not create, except war on their enemies. But they can force others to create for them. Without a doubt, that is where those horses came from. And if you would risk your life, you could step closer and see.”

“See?” He turned to the knight. “See what?”

“A thousand gods,” Ser Jorah said with a knowing air. “Statues and monuments to all the gods that failed their people when the khalasar would ride. They are small, when compared to the Horse Gate.” Viserys thought of the skulls of dragons that were hung overhead in the throne hall. They were massive, humbling things, as dark as cinder. He remembered how, before the Rebellion, he had stared up into them. There was none in the hall but he and the skull. He swore that the abyss of their eyes had also stared back into him.

“And now this city of horses will be ash,” Viserys said. “What does Khal Drogo intend?”

Mormont shrugged. “It’s destruction, surely. The means escape me, although I imagine the animals will play a part.”

Viserys could hear their whines over the murmurs of the Dothraki. “I would hope so. Their noise is insatiable.”

“Animals do hate to be caged, Your Grace.”

 _Not half as much as dragons._ He looked to the Horse Gate, and he wondered what the withered witches of Vaes Dothrak were feeling. For days, the Golden Horde had surrounded the city. They were strangling Vaes Dothrak bare, draining the city of its lifeblood. None came out and none could leave. Khal Drogo demanded that they take to the forests with axes, and his warriors took to the trees with zeal. Where once the land was flush with timber, was now barren. The fields were filled with the stump corpses.

When Viserys looked into the sky, even in the bright of day he could see the comet. It was a dark crimson that tore at the heavens. _It is dragonfire. I must keep faith. The gods are speaking to me._ They were giving him a sign, but Viserys only wished they were more clear. A storm had raged on the night that Dany was born, breaking the Usurper’s fleet and giving them the means to flee to Essos. That was the gods doing, Viserys was certain of that now. They _knew_ that his rightful place was on the Iron Throne, that he was destined to right all the wrongs committed by the Usurper, to restore honor to the Seven Kingdoms.

 _But for just once, can you be clear? Give me some clarity._ He almost wanted to say please, to implore them, but Viserys was born to the House Targaryen. The Targaryens never bowed to the whims of gods. Viserys had heard from this sister that the Dosh Khaleen had decreed that, within the walls of Vaes Dothrak, all of the Dothraki were of one blood. But faith does not unite a people. Aegon the Conqueror knew that only fire and blood would bend the people to his will. For all their talks of prophecy, it was Khal Drogo’s sword that united the horselords.

Faith made the people weak. For all of the High Septon’s decrees that the Usurper rode against the gods, the Rebellion still swept across the land. _Perhaps I should banish you_ he thought to the Seven. _Cast you out from the Kingdoms, burn your septs, put your loyal followers to the sword. Perhaps you should feast on the bitter fruit that you forced me to dine on for twenty years._ Yes, he decided, when he was king he would do away with religion entirely.

When night gathers, and the comet is at its brightest as Viserys has seen it, the Warlord gathers his army onto the hill. The slaves pull the cages on their wooden wheels while the Dothraki ride in a trot to look down on Vaes Dothrak. Viserys could almost hear the panic and the terror, although the only thing that one can hear for leagues and leagues is the whining of horses. He wonders what they are thinking, the Dosh Khaleen, as they smell their own death.

He is not allowed in the front. Again, and again, and again, Khal Drogo gives him insults. “I will give you what you are owed, nothing more,” the Khal had said to him. “You gave me the gift of your sister. I will give you an equal gift in return.”

“A gift,” Viserys had said, “a gift? I gave you an exchange. A wife and an heir, in return for you to sail across the Narrow Sea!”

“Now who is the one that presumes? You say that you gave me an heir.” And Khal Drogo leaned in close at that, and Viserys could never imagine that a man’s eyes could be so dark, or a face so hard to read. “Where is he then, my heir? Where is this gift you have given me, beggar king?”

Jon Snow was again at his sister’s side. She was wrapped in the white pelt of the lion that almost claimed the bastard’s life. Things would be better off if Jon Snow had perished. _The bastard has corrupted my sister. His influence is too great on her_. Viserys would handle Jon Snow himself, but the bastard had risen high in the Khal’s eyes. He was placed on the Warlord’s council, when Viserys should have had his place. The bastard’s death would ask too many questions.

Viserys saw how his sister’s belly swelled beneath her dress. _There is a chance the babe is not the bastard’s. The Khal’s seed could have taken root._ But it was just a chance. Dany should not have even taken Jon Snow in the first place. She should not have even accepted his vows of fealty. She should have _known_ that a seed of Stark could never be trusted.

 _He only wants the pleasure of your flesh. He is a dog’s mongrel._ Viserys had known this the moment Jon Snow had repelled him. _He feigns his lust for displays of loyalty. He treats you gently now, but he is a bastard. He will betray you, and then you will know._ It was his duty to protect her, but how can he protect Dany from herself? _She should have wanted me. But she had never spent any time in the Red Keep. Mother was not there to guide and nurture her on the proper path._

Sometimes, when the days were long and the nights were short, when he was covered in scrapes and bruises and Dany was looking up to him with wide eyes, he would try to remember what Mother looked like. He could remember the touch of her – the touch of soft and caring fingers on his cheek, the brush of her illustrious hair when she would embrace him. But he could not remember her smile, nor the soothing of her voice.

He could not remember Father. He is always behind the fog of memories. Somedays, Viserys wasn’t even certain what his crown looked like. One day, it was simple and slender, the others large and monstrous. Always changing, Father was, always shifting like the shadows of Viserys’ mind.

_I promised you would never be forgotten. I broke that first vow._

Khal Drogo grunted out an order, and Viserys could hear the clanks of the wheels tumble over the stones and grass. The Warlord approached the cage, and the way the man felt the wooden bars one would think they were the most tender thing in all the world. _Far more care than you handle my sister._ Then he untied one of the rough knots, and he guided out a bird. It was a tiny finch, with a sweet yellow coat and black tail feathers. The finch latched onto his finger. With a flick of his wrist the bird was sent flying into the air. It soared away from Drogo, from the army. It flew for Vaes Dothrak. Drogo nodded.

“Now,” he commanded. Men came forth with torches. The fires turned the dark sky into a blazing orange. They reached into the wheeled cages, and the torches set them ablaze. The birds hurried their wings and screamed, the weasels and the cats and the monkeys howled, going up and down, left then right, right and down, and every direction possible to escape the flames. There was no escape. The cages were ripped open, and all the birds flew out and all the critters rushed through the hills. The beats of their wings and the rush of their paws filled the air.

The sky was lit, blazed. Where once it was dark it was now bright and golden. The yellow and the black danced and raced against each other, the gray smoke pale. Viserys could see a thousand different embers, small and flickering in the sky.

No matter how fast they flew, the fires followed them on the paper tied to their feet. The birds screeched, and they beat their wings as fast as they could. They could not escape the flames. There was no sanctuary in site. No trees to be found. They flew towards the only bit of timber and wood and hay that they knew.

They flew towards the stone huts and thatched roofs of Vaes Dothrak. Before even the last bird was out of sight, Jon could see for miles the burning of the city. And before he could see the first pillar of smoke climb towards the sky, Jon could hear the screams. A thousand tiny fireballs filled the night air. The sky had turned red with the flames.

Something about all of it reminded Viserys of the day when Rickard Stark walked into the throne hall. He remembered how the azure flames ripped at his flesh, sheared at his bones. Flame was power, flame was might, the ability to burn was the same as the might to rule. Father knew this, and so does Khal Drogo.

Viserys could not keep the grin from his face. It had been too long since he could remember that lesson. 

“Vaes Dothrak is done,” Khal Drogo had decreed. “The city is the Dosh Khaleen’s funeral pyre.” There were attempts to escape, a few wayward souls that hopes to be spared from the fires. Drogo had his men surround the city with spears and bowmen, and they performed their duties well. None escaped the city. When the morning sun rose, as bright and fiery as dragon’s breath, Vaes Dothrak was the city of ash and darkened bones.


	5. Into the East

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The paths of the children of Stark diverge. Khal Drogo makes his return to Vaes Sash. The ghosts of the past linger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to read this chapter on my website (with music!): http://www.chaosinferred.com/creative/asoiaf/dragons/5-into-the-east/

**V**

**INTO THE EAST**

**THE FOOL OF THE KING**

 

As Ned laid there in his cell, alone in the darkness, he knew that he was a dead man.

He was sealed deep below the castle, Ned knew. When he Baratheon guards threw him in and sealed the door, Ned was covered in darkness. There were no windows, no slits to the outside world. There was not even a slop bucket – any food given to him was thrown onto the ground. Once the gates were closed Ned would take to the meat like a flea ridden mutt. He could not see; he could only touch, smell and feel. He may as well have had his eyes gorged out. At least then his vision wouldn’t strain in the darkness.

But even blind, he saw. Robert’s head emerge from the darkness. “You damn fool. Did you think I would let you leave? To bring back the dragons?” His last words before the antlered guards overwhelmed the Northman.

“Damn you Robert,” Ned swore to the shadows. Damn Robert and his circle of vipers. They were all cowards and fools, more willing to satiate Robert’s bloodlusts than to face him. Only Ned would oppose the murder of an innocent girl. And now he was alone in the shadows.

And his men were dead for it. Only Jory, Alyn and Harwin were safe. Oh Gods, how he prayed they had found a ship. But the rest of the men were dead because of him. They trusted him and swore their lives to him. And his foolishness cost them their lives. Eddard Stark, the Fool of the North. He should have fled. Made haste in the night. He had threatened to bring Daenerys to Winterfell. Did he believe that Robert would give him time?

Yes, he had to admit. He loved Robert. Robert was as close to him as any brother. Perhaps even closer. Benjen and Brandon could not make him laugh as Robert could. He remembered Robert’s laughs, his grins, his warm embrace. Ned had hoped that the bloodlust would fade and that he could reason with the man. It was a fool’s hope.

The hours turned into days, and the days into eternity. Or perhaps it was all just a few hours? In the darkness, it was all the same to Ned. The only way he could track the time was when the gaoler came, with the stale bread and water. But he had lost track, and now all the hours and days melted together, and the hunger racked at him.

“My daughters,” he would plead to the gaoler, but the man would only curse and kick at him. Then he would be alone in the dark again. Alone with his doubts. Would the Gods hear him, so far removed from the Godswood? Another fool’s hope. Still, he prayed in the darkness. He prayed that Arya and Sansa would live. That they may have found a way to escape. Perhaps one of his guardsman escaped Robert’s slaughter and whisked Sansa and Arya away. Hope beyond hope, all of them stupid and desperate. He had thrown his family into a den of lion and stags with antlers sharper than knives. He remembered the direwolf mother they found outside of Winterfell. The antler was in her throat. _I should have seen it then. Eddard the Fool._

He thought of Aegon and Rhaenys then. Tywin Lannister laid their ruined corpses at Robert’s feet, and the man was congratulated. If royal blood could be butchered like that, what about the seed of a traitor? Ned wept then, his hands shaking in the darkness. He had killed his daughters. Ned knew it.

When he wasn’t raddled with guilt or grief, Ned shook with pain. His leg throbbed. It was infected, he knew it. He could smell the stench of the pus. It filled his small cell like a veil. The Baratheon man had sent the spear right through it, and Ned had no doubt that his leg would be the death of him. He could very well die long before Robert brings him to the axeman. When he didn’t move the leg didn’t hurt nearly as much, so he did his best be as still as possible. It was only a measly solution, but it gave him small comfort. In the small moments when the pain didn’t burn through him, Ned managed to find some sleep. A moment’s respite. Then the seeping pain would return, or the gaoler would make some noise, and Ned would awaken into darkness once more.

Ned tried to build hope in the shadows. He had told Catelyn to fill Moat Cailin with two-hundred archers. That half sunken fortress would turn the Crannogs into a deathtrap for Robert’s armies. It would fall in time, though. Robert would not rest until the North was fire and ruins. He would do to the Northman what he had done to the Targaryens.

He thought of Jon then. _I should have told him, Lyanna._ The boy had lived in the darkness of his mother. Ned wished he was with him now, so he could tell him that his mother loved him, cared for him. That she had the wolf’s blood in her, and that is what got her killed. He thought of Daenerys then, the princess that was forced to flee as a babe. The blood of the dragon. It’s in them both. _Jon, you need to cool her fires, and she needs to be your passions. That is the only hope for you both._ He wished he could hold Jon in his arms again. He wanted Jon to know of Lyanna.

He wished Lyanna could have watched him grow. She didn’t deserve to die. She was far too young, far too beautiful, too wild and too brave. She was his sister. Lyanna used to beat him with sticks. She was the best rider in all of the North. She loved the scenet of winter roses.

“Honor,” the King mocked in the shadows. He could hear the man even now. “Will that fill your belly? Will that protect your precious children from me? It didn’t protect Rhaegar’s whelps.”

Ned should have known what type of King Robert would become when Tywin Lannister laid the remains of children at his feet. He should had known when he spared the Kingslayer, instead of executing the man for dishonor. _I should have put you to the sword, and put the Targaryens back on the throne. I should have watched over Viserys Targaryen and made him a good king. I should have wed Daenerys to one of my sons. I could have saved the realm, and all I had to do was dispose of the man I called brother._

The words were poison. _My wound is tainting my heart._ What good could the Targaryens be, when they murdered his father and brother? Father always spoke slowly and with care. Ned tried so much to be like him. As he sat in the High Seat, he asked himself what his father would do, or what he would say, or how he would lean, or fold his hands, or frown or look or demand.

And Brandon. Bran, with his big smiles and untamed mane of hair, and the fiery passion in his eyes. Brandon the Heir, Brandon the Brother, Bran the Wolf. He was strangled, it was said, trying to reach for a sword.

But Ned had blinded himself to the truth. He thought he could scurry away into the North. Let the South plot and scheme and kill children in their cribs. The North would keep to itself, away from the machinations of madmen. Ned would keep his family close and safe. He’d keep Jon safe. Ever the fool. He had split his family, sent Jon into the maws of the dragon, made history repeat himself.

_Were you destined for this, Jon? To find love in your father’s sister? To seek out the family you never knew? Just as I was destined to send the North into the Seven Hells?_

Ned could hear the rattling of iron keys outside of his cell. The iron door squealed for iron as it opened. “Food,” he begged. His voice was hoarse, and his words begged to escape him.

“Wine,” the gaoler answered. He threw a skin of it at Ned’s feet. His eyes squinted as a lit torch was produced. It was only then that Ned could see who the man was. He was missing the fine perfumes, and his face was a gallery of hair barely grown. But Varys stood before him, hooded and cloaked. “My Lord,” he greeted.

“Varys,” he said in astonishment. “Have you come to kill me?” He lifted the skin. “Does the King mean to poison me?”

“No, My Lord. I am alone.” Ned didn’t believe him. Varys sighed. “Very well.” He grabbed the skin from Ned’s hands and drank. After he was done he wiped the trickle of red wine from his lips. He offered the skin to Ned, who tore it from the eunuch and gorged himself.

“Why are you here, Spider? Have you come for questions?”

“For revelations,” Varys answered. “Pray gods, tell me Lord Stark. What madness spurred you to remain in the city? Did you expect the King to allow you to willingly bring a dragon into your halls?”

“Jon Arryn,” Ned answered. “I needed to know the truth. I thought just one more day, and I would find the answer.”

“And you did, I take it? That musty old tome?” Varys smiled. “There is no need to keep secrets in the dark. None of the golden-haired children of Cersei Lannister have the blood of the Baratheons.”

“So that is the truth of it. ‘The seed is strong’.”

“Yes,” Varys replied. “Those were his last words. I told you why the previous Lord Hand was murdered. For asking questions. I feared the same fate for you. I never thought it would be for rebellion.”

“It was for rescue,” Ned growled. “Did Robert expect me to throw Jon to the wolves?” _Promise me, she had pleaded, in her red bed that smelled of roses._

“He did,” Varys said plainly. “Why would you announce your intents so plainly, My Lord?”

 _Became I am a fool._ “Because I am honest. Because I still thought Robert to be my friend.”

“Your friend died a long time ago. Robert the King died only this morning.”

“What?” Robert is dead? Robert, the man who was quick to laugh? Robert, who loved his sister? Robert, his best friend? The man he loved was dead?

Varys nodded. “I am afraid so. He went on a hunting trip and was gutted by a boar. It took him three days to die. He was a very stubborn man, our King Robert. Even death had a hard time with him.”

“So now Joffrey is king?”

“Joffrey does indeed rest on the Iron Throne, although his uncles have a few things to say about it. Renly rides for Highgarden. No doubt he intends to petition Mace Tyrell to war, with the beautiful Margaery at his side. And Stannis is sure to summon his banners to Dragonstone, although I fear the stern lord shall learn few will favor him.”

“Stannis is the rightful heir. Renly should kneel to his brother.”

Varys smiled. “And yet, Renly would place a crown on his own brow. He would be more loved than Stannis, to be certain. More lords would flock to him than his serious brother. The question is, what shall the North do?”

“Defend, if my son is wise. Fortify, hold the line, and outlive all this madness.”

“Indeed, if he were wise,” Varys nodded with approval. “And yet, I wonder if that is the course he will take? Or even, the course your bannermen would take.”

“He will march to war. For my sake?” _Don’t do this Robb. Take care of your brothers, look after your mother. Keep your sisters safe._

“Would any son allow his caring father to be devoured by lions? I think not. And the threat of war does create a powerful shield for your daughter.”

“My daughter?” Was one of them killed? Arya or Sansa? Oh Gods, please no.

“Beautiful Sansa.” There was a tinge of sadness in the man’s voice. “She has already been swept away by the Queen’s well voiced arguments. She has written to your brother, insisting that you bend the knee. That you were swept by treasonous madness, to defend your bastard that laid with the exiled princess.”

“And what other letters would Robb have read by now?”

“Ah, My Lord. You know the truth of it. Stannis has already sent out proclamations to all the Paramount Lords, your trueborn son among them.  That Joffrey, Marcella and Tommen were all creatures of incest, illegitimate, and deserve no place on the Iron Throne. Your son may be persuaded to march for him. Or to rescue you. After all, the King is dead, and here you lay trapped. Few can know what is truth and which is the mummer’s play? But I fear your son is in this farce, one way or another. Defense will not be on his table.”

“Arya,” Ned growled through the pain. “You never spoke of her.”

“Because I know not of her. No one does. Her Dancing Master was killed. A most skilled man he was. With just a wooden blade he took down three men, before Ser Meryn Trent ended his dance once and for all. She could be dead, in the sewers, on the streets, or have even managed to flee the city for all I know. Your daughter is a rare spectacle. She has managed to flee the sight of all my birds.”

Arya was safe. In his bones, Ned knew it _. Run North, Arya. Do whatever you can. Don’t come back to this cursed city._

“Who do you serve Varys? Why are you here?”

“Why, the realm My Lord.” And for the first time, Ned knew that Varys was speaking truth. “And the realm is not done with you, Stark. Even with an infected leg, your life still has value.”

“Do not speak to me of escape, Varys,” Ned hissed through his teeth. “You may think my life has value, but I know how much worth my life has.”

“That is where you are wrong, My Lord. I can sense it in your voice. You intend to deny everything. That what you did was treason. That you sought only to protect your family, by bringing the seed of the man that murdered your father into your home. A queer argument. Few would listen, and none that can keep the realm together.”

“You would have me beg?”

“I would have you lie, My Lord. I know you are no mummer, but I ask you to take on the part, and learn your role in this mad play.” _I know the worth of a lie. I lied to the world for Jon’s sake._ “Admit that what you did was treason. Say that you intended to put your bastard son and Daenerys on the throne. Think on some excuse that could sway you to such madness. And the North would be forced to bow.”

“To a spawn of incest.”

“To a king,” Varys said simply. “It would preserve Sansa’s life. It may even whisk her away to Winterfell. And if you admit to treason, even if it was all a lie, your life would not end. The Wall has need of good men like you. Did you not entertain the idea of sending Jon Snow there, instead of Essos? Perhaps it was fate, for a Stark of Winterfell to serve there in these trying times.”

“This would save Sansa?” Varys nodded. “You swear on this?”

“I swear on nothing, Lord Stark. It is the reason why I am a free man, and why you are in chains. But if I can save your daughter, while keeping the realm safe, I shall do it. But only if. If your daughter’s life is the price for peace, I shall take it, and accept my fate in the realms beyond.”

It was all he had.  He had the honor of a man that had none. But Varys swore he served the realm, which was more than anyone else in this cursed place. Even Ned was not willing to give up his family for keeping the realm at peace. Perhaps Varys was the best man of them all. A Spider had more worth than all of the knights in the Kingdoms. “So be it. I will do it. Gods forgive me, I will do it. I will say I meant to put a dragon on the throne, and Jon at her side.”

“It is a hard choice, My Lord, to be remembered as a villain when you only meant to protect those that you loved. I imagine Rhaegar must be laughing at us from above. He must have felt the same, as he rode down onto the Trident.”

 

**THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL**

 

Despite how many said that it was Khal Drogo’s greatest victory, that his legacy was secured, that this was the beginning of a new Dothraki, the Golden Horde’s march back to Vaes Sash was a solemn affair. Only a few raised their cups of mare wine to the end of Vaes Dothrak. Only a few yelled encouragements of how the Dothraki would never again be ruled by crones. As they marched west, the Dothraki looked east. Their eyes were focused on Vaes Dothrak.

_Are their hearts set on Vaes Sash? Or can they only see what Khal Drogo has destroyed?_

The morning after the fire, Jon found No-Eyes resting on a hill. Below one could see the dark pillars of smoke rise into the air. “It is a rare thing,” No Eyes had said, “to see a culture brought to its end.” The man leaned on his staff as he looked towards the smoking ruins. “To be ruined and desecrated…that is one thing. But to be utterly whipped out? To be removed from the earth? How long has Vaes Dothrak been the cornerstone of the Dothraki?” He shrugged. “Now it is nothing. Perhaps a hundred years from now, some fat Pentoshi scholar will comment on it. What do you think your maesters in Westeros will say, Jon?”

Jon did not know any maesters, except for Luwin, who had served his father ever since Walys had passed away. He tried to think what Luwin would say. He was a sage man, considered his words with care, and Jon could not recall a time when Father dismissed his counsel entirely. “Perhaps,” Jon said after a time, “that it would mark a new Dothraki. That it was an end to the raids and the pillages. Perhaps the old had to die, for something new to begin.”

“Perhaps,” No-Eyes said softly. “Perhaps.”

As the Golden Horde swept across the Dothraki Sea, a hot wave poured over them. Jon could see grass that had turned gray and brittle, leaning trees with withered leaves, and all the while the Dothraki whispered of the Dosh Khaleen that haunted them. In the day, Ghost would cling to him. It was a rare moment when Jon would see the direwolf stalk his way across the grasslands in search of prey. _Perhaps Khal Drogo had defiled something._ If he was home in Westeros, the idea of curses would be absurd. Maester Luwin would have slapped him on the head for thinking such nonsense.

And yet…and yet…this was not Westeros. This was Essos, where fat men bargained with warlords, where the dragons fled, it was the home of shadowbinders. If curses existed, why not in Essos? _Has Drogo damned himself_ he asked the trees and the grasses. A soft wind was their answer.

Doreah made sure to keep close to him. “We must keep appearances,” she said during the first night. Jon remembered how she had shed her clothes, and he saw the curve of her sides, and the fullness of her breasts. “You need not do anything. But if any should come, they will wonder why we are not naked in bed.” If he didn’t have Daenerys, if she hadn’t chosen him above all others, Jon wondered if he would have lusted for Doreah. She shared his fur, and when the warmth of their bodies mingled, Jon could only feel shame. _In this place, dishonor is pride. I cannot even tell right from wrong anymore._ Every night she would come and slip beneath his furs, and sometimes Jon imagined how abhorred Father would be.

 _Have I forgotten how I was made? Father laid with another woman, and that union created me._ Perhaps it wasn’t such a surprise, that he had small desires of Doreah. His was the blood of a bastard. Black blood coursed through his veins.

“You should kiss me,” Doreah insisted, “and not a chaste kiss. Not here, when none can see, but during the day.” Her fingers had trailed his chest. “We _are_ supposed to be lovers.”

“I have Daenerys,” he said. “I love her.”

“I know. But it is queer enough that they don’t hear our lovemaking at night. If not that, then at least make a show during the day. I have no illusions of what we are doing, Jon. Do you?”

At first, Doreah did most of the kissing. “Is that how you are with Daenerys?” she scolded as they warmed around a fire. “Hard as it is, imagine I am her. People need to think that you have eyes only for me.” As the days passed, and as they marched back to Vaes Dothrak, Jon almost found it easier to fool himself. _If I can lie to myself, it is not so hard to lie to everyone else._ When it was dark, Jon could almost her as Daenerys. Her eyes were blue, but she had hair so fair that it was almost silver. But the way she moved, the way her lips graced his…none of it was Daenerys. Doreah was not the woman that chose him.

But Jon took up the mummery. He’d let his gaze fall on her, when he’d ride past Daenerys and her handmaidens. His touch would linger on her exposed flesh, and when enough people were looking he would kiss her. _I am lying to save Dany and my son. I am lying. I am lying._ Doreah knew her part all too well. She would smile at him, give him wayward glances, step with confidence at his side, speak in a hot and lustily tone. It was hard to forget that she was brought up a pillow slave in Lys.

“Your child will be very lucky,” she said one night. “He will know both of you.”

“Did you not know your parents?” He regretted asking.

Doreah shook her head. “I knew the one. My mother was a mistress of a pillow house. She never spoke of my father. Probably was one of her most favored customers. Favored him too well, I imagine,” she smiled. “She didn’t want me to become…what she did. But she died of a heating sickness, and I was sold off soon after. I was ten and three when I lost my maidenhead. Before you ask Jon, it wasn’t a kind experience. He wasn’t old or fat, but he was rough and reeked of the forge.”

“I never knew my mother.” He didn’t know why he was talking. The words just came out. “I…I dreamed of her sometimes.” He never even told Dany this.

“What did you think she was like?” When Jon looked at Doreah, her blue eyes invited him to continue.

“Highborn,” he said. “Young, kind, and beautiful. I tried to imagine what she would say to me. When I was a boy, and I’d see how my trueborn brothers and sisters would be treated by their mother…I tried to imagine the same. She and I resting on a hill, her fingers going through my hair. Just the two of us.”

“It’s a sweet dream,” she smiled.

“A stupid dream. My mother was probably…some woman my father found out on the battlefield.” Jon rolled over and pulled the furs over him. “Put out the fire when you’re done.”

When he wasn’t summoned by Drogo, or discovered by No-Eyes, or when Dany didn’t find a way to slip away with Jon, Jhogo always managed to catch up to him. The man was all smiles, but his dark eyes had a knowing spark to them. _He knows more than he lets on. He may call me friend, but I must be careful around him._

One night, around the camp fires where cooked the spindling horse meats, Jhogo found him. “You are a slippery one, Jon.” Ghost was sitting on his hunches, just ever so slightly out of sight. But Jon could feel his silent gaze, and he suspected so did Jhogo. “Are you not going to invite me, to share your fire? It is a cold night, on this Dothraki Sea?”

“Who are you? You are not Jhogo, because if you were, you would sit without question. Just as you had a hundred times before.”

“Perhaps I wanted to change,” he said with mock apology. “But if you insist.” He took a spot just across from the fire. His bright copper skin sat against the dark of the Essosi night.  “I should be more stern around you. After all, you will be a father.”

Jon was very still. “What are you talking about?”

Jhogo smiled. “You and the handmaiden. Doreah. If you thought to keep such things a secret, you have a strange way to go about it.”

“What makes you so certain that she carries my child?”

“Does she not grace your tents every night? We Dothraki know more of the world than you Andals think. We know that if you put a cock in a woman enough times, she swells with your child.” Jhogo became quiet, and Jon wondered if the man was waiting on him. “I had thought to make her mine, you know.”

“You couldn’t take her,” Jon said with a point. “She is a handmaiden to Daenerys Targaryen.”

“No.” Jhogo smiled long and thin, and Jon wondered just how deep he was into his drink. “But I could talk, could have said how pretty her hair was. Maybe give her a drink, or two. And maybe she wouldn’t mind slipping under _my_ furs.” His leather tanned boots rolled a stone. “But you’ll be happy with her, I think. She has good thighs. She’ll give you plenty of sons…and maybe a daughter or two along the way.”

Jon was quiet. Dany had talked often of their children, of the family they would have once they escape the Dothraki. They would have her silver hair, and his dark hair, with eyes of Old Valyria and eyes of the First Men. _They would all be the sons and daughters of a bastard, though._ He would sometimes imagine Dany signing to them, in a hushed voice. Perhaps he would be looking off from the distance, or perhaps he was right next to her. _They would be loved, though. They may have the name of Snow or Rivers or Flowers, but their father and mother would love them. We would protect them._

But first, they would need to escape. First, Khal Drogo has to die. It’s an easy thing to say. The way Dany speaks, she may very well think that her desire to do something is the same thing as her ability to do so. It would be Doreah that would be placing herself at risk to secure the poison. And even then, once the deed is done…Vaes Sash would be in chaos. Ko would turn on ko as they each declared themselves to be the next khal. And none of them would suffer an heir to Drogo’s legacy to live. 

They had no plan for what came next. _You are thinking of the next step, but not of the one that comes after that._ If it happened when Drogo was away, that would make things easier.

 _But it will never be easy_. Even if Drogo dies with no suspicion cast on him or Dany, even if they manage to escape unharmed, and even _if_ they manage to slip to one of the Free Cities in such a way that Mopatis or Viserys could never touch them…people will die. It was easier when No-Eyes was just the abuser, instead of the man that gave counsel and jests, or when Jhogo hadn’t shared how he had desired Doreah, or perhaps when Rokharo hadn’t stepped into Ghost’s droppings and made everyone laugh.

It would have been easier if they were strangers. _I know these faces. How many of them will die when Drogo is dead?_

It was supposed to be easier, when the course was set. He had a clear goal in mind – the death of Drogo. But now all Jon could feel was doubt. Doubt at how to proceed, doubt at what was right, doubt at even his motivations. _Whatever Dany says, it is bastard blood that flows through me._

On the day before they returned to Vaes Sash, Jon was summoned to Khal Drogo. “The Khal has called for your presence, Andal,” the Dothraki guard said behind his bronze mask. Jon could feel the heat of the morning sun through the canvas of his tent. “He would feast with you, tonight” And next to him Doreah began to wake, her body moving against his. “Does it need said that you best not be late?”

“No,” Jon said as he looked at Doreah’s naked back. “I know the Khal is not one to be tested.”

When they arrived again, Jon was dressed in black robes with crimson beads that hung from his belt. A howling wolf was stitched across his shoulder, white threaded into the dark fabric. The pair of masked guards guided Jon through the camp. Against the night sky Jon could see nothing but red. There were the campfires, but they all seemed to pale when compared to the comet that raced across the sky.

It was as red as blood.

Khal Drogo’s tent was the biggest by far, supported by bronze poles etched with the depictions of horses and their riders. Bear fur overlapped the thick canvas, and Jon could see thick pillars of smoke rise from holes that were torn into the top of the tent. Even from outside, Jon could smell the spices and charred meat.

The guard said that Drogo had summoned him for a feast. Jon had expected a lavish display, filled with all of the Khal’s advisors and allies. Instead, he found Drogo waiting behind a round table. Daenerys was at his side, the curves of her womb apparent beneath her dress. Seated next to them were Drogo’s mother and Hezzare. Drogo was dressed in a bright red robe, the silk glittering by the brazier fires, his shoulders covered in fur. The Khal loomed like a flame compared to his wife, who was dressed in a silvery dress. Her head was crowned with blue beads that sang whenever she turned her head.

Drogo gave him an approving nod. “You look well dressed, Andal.”

“I was told I was summoned for a feast.”

“Yes,” the Khal said gruffly. “A feast for the four of us.” His fingers reached for a bowl of mare wine. “Come, Jon. I have a Khal’s hunger.” At that came slaves, their bronze collars shaking as the dishes arrived on gleaming bowls. Haunches of goat, heavily spiced and sprinkled with sweetgrass, meatpies dripping with horsemeat, and to wash it all down they were served a milky broth teeming with mushrooms. “Tell me, Andal,” Drogo said as he sipped at a bowl of broth, “have you ever been in a procession?”

“We will be honoring my brother’s victory,” Hezzare said with a smile. The man was eating at the same messy meat as the rest of them, but Jon could see no traces on the man’s fingers. “A big show for the people.”

“A big huff and a puff is more like it,” sharply spoke Virenni. Her fingers were dripping with the blood of goats. “The entire world knows that you burned Vaes Dothrak to the ground. If not now, they will soon when they find it’s smoking rubbles.”

“It would make the people love him,” Dany said. “Let them share in his great victory.”

The Khalmai snorted. “The people will love him when he throws gold to all the bedslaves for a week, and fills the barrels with ale and wine. Drogo doesn’t need banners and music for that.”

“I did not ask for your opinions.” Drogo looked at Jon, his dark eyes focused and intense. “I asked you a question, Andal.”

Jon shook his head. “No, Khal. My family is noble, but not royalty. And I am bastard born besides. I would never have been permitted in such a thing.” Dany sipped from her cup, but Jon could see the scolding look in her eyes.

Drogo huffed as he forced his cup down. “That makes no matter here, not among my Dothraki. I would have you ride at my side, Andal.”

Virenni’s head snapped. “Drogo, that should be reserved for the blood of your blood. The Andal is loyal, but so has all of your captains. Your ko will fit when they hear of this.”

“Let them rattle their swords.” The Khal tapped his knuckles at the table. “Jon’s sword saved my life on the fields of Qohor. He deserves to be at my side.”

The Khalmai shook her head.  You would brag to the world that a servant was greater than the lord. Already people talk of the _Andal_ that won the battle of Qohor.”

“Jon Snow should ride at my husband’s side.” Dany sipped from her cup, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “My husband’s blood are _expected_ to be loyal and trustworthy. Why should we reward what is expected? Jon is my sworn sword, but he made no fealties to my husband. None asked him to be true, and yet he is. If someone reaches great heights, they should be lauded for it.” Jon could feel his fingers dig into his pants. “We should reward loyalty,” she smiled.

If Hezzare or Virenni meant to say something, Drogo refused them. “My wife is right. And that will be the last of it. I will deal with my bloodriders. If they holler, they will remember whom is the Khal that united the Dothraki.” Jon could see a thin smile on his face. “Would your father have permitted such a thing? Refused his lords and commanders to do what was right?”

Jon faltered. “He would…My father would always do the right thing, Khal. After all, he is the reason why I am here.” He looked only at Khal Drogo, but Daenerys heard his words. “If not for my Lord Father, I would be on a Wall, sworn to be the sword in the darkness, to take no wife and to father no children. But my Father saw a better path for me here,” he tapped at the table, “in Essos. And he was right.”

 

**THE PROMISE**

Ned could feel the booldthirst in the air. If not from the screams of the people as he was dragged out from his cage, from the look in their eyes. Hazily, he looked over the crowd from the steps of Baelor’s Sept. Everything seemed to go still, everything seemed to go slower, everything was wrong. “Traitor” they screamed. “Kill him! Kill the man that killed King Robert!” He wanted to say No, that was all wrong, he would never kill Robert, he loved him too much, he only wanted to keep Jon safe. _Promise me_ she had said, and he promised her that he would.

Some faceless man in an iron mask had dragged him out from the wheeled cage. Ned had looked for Ser Barristan, but he could not see the man. The man was honest and capable, but he had outlived three kings. No doubt Cersei Lannister wanted less than nothing to do with him. _He is not wanted here. Not for when I lie._

He could see Sansa. Her red hair was tightened into a braid, and she stood a respectful distance away. _Did you plead for me, Sansa? Did you think my life had any meaning?_ Little Sansa, she had always known her courtesies. She always knew her respects, her smiles, the sweet gestures that would bring a laugh to his face. _I made you too soft Sansa. I should have tried to put a sword in your hand and a horse between your legs. I should have made you into a Lyanna with burning red hair._ If he had the strength for it, he would call out for her forgiveness and mercy.

But he looked onto the boy king, and he knew whose mercy it was that he needed to secure. He had promised Varys and Cersei Lannister that he would say the words.

_I will offer my heart on a sacrificial board, and they will return my girls home._

But when he strained his eyes, he could not see Arya. She was not marched along Arya, was not made to look at this raging crowd…she was not _there_. Ned knew that Varys was speaking the truth then. His infected leg shook with pain, and he could feel a heat wash over him. But Arya wasn’t here. She was safe, somewhere. Anywhere but in King’s Landing.

He was guided towards the Sept, but not kindly. The Lannister soldiers in their crimson and gold hung his arms under theirs and dragged him along. Straining, Ned looked upwards. He could feel the soft daggers rise from his bones into his flesh. The sun was bright, and the light almost blinded him. Through watery eyes he could see the comet. Against the golden sky it was almost lost, but Ned could see it, a silver sword racing.

A sword of justice. _It is like Ice. A blade as white as Winterfell. Jon, do you see it? Robb and Brann? Please, look away. Do not attempt justice on my sake. If I am doomed to die, then so be it. But kneel for peace. Hold sons of your own someday. I sent Jory for you, Jon. Don’t let it be folly. Let you and Daenerys live long. Justice will just bring you death._

The Seven Gods loomed over him. They were not his gods. His gods were the faces carved into pale trees. They were Catelyn’s gods…the Father who oversaw justice, the Mother who gave counsel to women, the Crone who was wise…they were here now. _Can my gods hear me?_ There was a godswood in the Red Keep. _Can you hear me, Father? I don’t know the words. Protect Jon. He is not yours, but his father was. For all his follies, Rhaegar worshiped the Seven. I promised Lyanna…I promised his mother…_

He could almost smell her now. She loved the sweet scent of the winter roses. She would always have he or Benjen cut a rose for her from the glassgardens.

“Lift him up,” a voice said.

“He needs to say his treasons.”

The High Septon was saying something, his crystal crown resting on his bald head. Cersei Lannister was looking at him, her golden eyes simmering. Ned could see the fear in his daughter’s eyes, the youthful pride in Joffrey, the patient look in Varys. And all the while, Eddard could see how Littlefinger had the slightest smile on his face. “I told you not to trust me,” he said before Robert’s men came. _Catelyn was wrong of you. You are not on our side, I know that now. If I should ever see Robb again, I will tell him to consider all of your words poison. You will not betray another Stark, I promise._

He was pushed to his feet. Ned knew what to say. The words were wrong, they were lies, they were poison, but he had to say them. “I am Eddard Stark.” His voice was raw, his words came out all weak and soft. His throat rattled. In the distance, he could see blue roses trail the sky. _I must focus my mind. Before all of my strength is gone…_ “King Robert called me my friend, and I betrayed him.” The crowd erupted into disapproval. “ _Traitor!”_ they said, “ _Oathbreaker!”_ and “ _Kill him!_ ”  Ned could see the Gold Cloaks make their approach, using their spears and shields to push the people away. His throat was on fire, but the words had to be said. _My lies will keep her safe._ “I betrayed his trust in me, and sought to keep the Targaryens safe. I intended to put my bastard son on the throne, meant to restore the Targaryens to power.” The crowd was drowning out his words now. He could feel a hot pain in his chest, and his strength ebbed and flew away from his legs. Men in armor caught his fall. His head bobbled as he spoke, “Forgiveness. Mercy. Mercy for my crimes. My sins…”

That was enough. The High Septon raised his hands. “Foul deeds,” he began in a tenor. “But the Seven has taught us that mercy can be found in them. Sins have been confessed. Your Grace, what is your decision?”

A silence followed. Ned could hear the beatings of his heart, a drumming that was in tone with the pain that raged through his leg. For a single moment, the world became so heavy, his mind became so weak.

Then he saw her, that girl with dark hair and a circlet of blue roses around her head, that pale silvery dress, that smile. That bold smile with the shining teeth. She was there, not as she was but as how Ned could remember her. Lyanna, who was young and full of so much pride. “What am I going to do with her?” Father had asked, and he never knew, and the world didn’t know.

All of his strength left him then, what little of it remained. He felt the world rush up to him, and a pain rocked through his knees as they collapsed onto the marble steps. “Lyanna?” The name was a whisper, low and hoarse.  Her bed was covered in blood, the tower was heavy with it, and she forced the promise from him. _Keep him safe. Robert will kill him, you know he will. Promise me_.

But here she was, so young, so strong and beautiful. Her smile was wide and strong. “I kept him safe,” he said. “Jon is safe. Jon lives. I named him Jon. That’s his name. His name.”

He could feel her fingers on his cheek. The wind was pulling at her hair. _I know. He is so strong, Ned. You kept him safe, gave him a family that loved him. He was wanted, wasn’t he Ned?_

He nodded, weakly. “Brothers and sisters. I wish you could have seen them, Lya. You should have seen Jon grow. He should have known you. I was not fast enough, not strong enough, not good enough. There was more I could have done. I should have kept you safe. Jon should have known you.”

Abd then she hushed him, and her fingers were in his hair. They were caked in mud and sweat, but Lyanna did not seem to care. And then Ned wept, he felt all strength left him, and he could not stop. He heard the crowd roar out, Sansa was screaming, Varys said something. There was the stomping of feet, the clattering of steel.

“I should have done more.”

 _You did everything. Look._ And Ned could see the both of them. There was Brandon, with his long hair and the boldness in his eyes. And looking on was Father, Lord Rickard Stark, with his eyes like steel. “I could have stopped Brandon. Forced him to stay, broke his feet. Father said to let him go. I should have rejected him, but I always did what I was told. Always. I should have said something…”

_There was nothing you could have said. Not to Father. And not to me._

“It was not meant for me. Brandon, Brandon, he was meant for it. Lyanna, I did what I could. It was all wrong, I could have done more. Should have done more. Jon I sent him…I sent him into the dragon’s jaw.”

_No, you brave fool. You gave him a chance. Ned, close your eyes. We are waiting for you. It will be over soon. We will wait for your sons and daughters together. When Catelyn passes, we will await your children. And when we see Jon again, when I hold him in my arms, we will wait for his children. Be brave Ned, be brave._

 

**THE SHE-WOLF OF WINTERFELL**

 

Arya was surrounded in darkness, but it was a darkness that she knew. Not just two week past when she had been here for the black tom. Now Arya was the one clutching to the shadows. She was the black thing while the men in armor of gold and yellow and red were looking for her. But they wouldn’t find her. Not here.

She remembered what it was like, when Syrio Forel told her his final words. “The First Sword of Bravos does not run,” he had said. His wooden sword was hacked in two, but he stood before the Kingsguard knight without fear. Arya ran as fast as she could, clutching Needle in her arm. She came across what was left of her father’s guard. She found Hullen, but he was already dead, his body riddled with arrows.

And then there was the stableboy. He tried to stop her, said that the Queen would reward him. She killed him before she even realized it. She didn’t mean it – Needle had just ended up in his chest. The boy begged her to take it out, and she did. Then he died and Arya ran. First was to the Septa, to steal some candles. Then it was into the darkest places of the castle. A darkness that only Arya and the strange men knew.

For days Arya laid among the bones of the dragons. They filled her with fear the first time they met, but now it was different. She knew the real monsters were lions and stags, and the dragons had led her to the strange men. They were like old friends, those dead things with abysses for eyes. In the night she would cradle among the grooves of their bones, and in the day she would sneak her way to the streets for food. Sometimes she would steal rats, but other times she would steal food from the kitchens.

That one eared cat was the king of the Red Keep, but Arya was its queen. Sometimes, in the final moments before sleep overtook her, she would giggle herself silly. What did they think were stealing all the food? Maybe it was the ghost of the murdered Stark guards, they would say. Let that be some vengeance for them. Sometimes Arya would awake with tears on her lips. She wanted to look for Sansa, but it was so dangerous. The guards were everywhere. Even the queen of the Red Keep had to be cautious. But Sansa was her sister. _She would call me horseface. It would almost be sweet for her to do so._

There were days when she couldn’t steal any rats, or snatch any food from the kitchens. When she would be alone in the darkness, her only companion would be the cramps in her belly. By then the candles had long since burnt out, their waxes melted and dripped all over the hall. Those were the worst days. But she would often talk to the skulls. She knew they couldn’t hear. They were as dead as the stableboy, as Syrio Forel and all the rest.

But Arya felt they could listen all the same. She would talk of Winterfell, of how the walls were warmed by the hot springs. She would say how stupid Sansa was, but how she missed her sister regardless. That she remembered what Father told her, about how the lone wolf dies. She laid out her frustrations on those generation old bones. And one day, she talked about how much she wanted to fight like Nymeria of the Rhoynar, and Viseny who rode Vhagar.

And that was when the skulls spoke back.

“You are no Visenya,” Vhagar would snarl with its ice white bones. “Visenya was passion and fury both. You are just a girl with a stick of a sword.”

“And so was Visenya, at one time,” spoke Vermithor. Vermithor was the Old King’s dragon, and he always spoke with patience. “And this one has just as much potential as she.”

“Potential is nothing without power,” roared Balerion the Black Dread. His bones were as dark as night. Arya could feel her stomach twist inside. “And what power does a wolf have?”

“More than us,” said Sunfyre. “We are naught but bones. Oh, if only we could fly again, breathe flame and power.”

“Our time has passed,” Vermithor graveled. “The lesser races saw to that, and they are suffering for it.”

“Not all of us have passed,” Vhagar said. “Not yet. There is one more, and soon two. Her brother saw to it.”

“A wolf and a dragon?” Balerion’s contempt was immense. “If that is our hope, we are doomed. Have you forgotten the words? Fire and Blood. Nothing but ice and snow in that boy’s veins.”

“Jon is more than a wolf! You’re just a pile of bones. He’s my brother!”

“Yes,” Vermithor said. “She is the boy’s sister. And by all the laws of Valyria, that makes them kin.”

“More kin than anyone will know,” Sunfyre mused.

“Kin none the less,” Vhagar said. “She has steel and flesh. She has more power than us. She is no Visenya, but she is all we have. Girl, why are you here?”

“Because the stags and lions are looking for me.”

“And we mistook you for a wolf,” Balerion chuckled. “I thought the wolves cared for their pack.”

“I do,” Arya protested to the dead. “I love my family!” She felt tear water in her eyes. “I miss Bran and Robb. I even miss Sansa. I want to find her but it’s too dangerous. I can’t save my father. I don’t even know where he is.”

“Sansa is weak,” Balerion snarled. “A stupid girl with stupid dreams. And your father is beyond saving. But neither is true for Jon.”

“Jon,” she said. She remembered what he told her. _Stick them with the pointy end._ He would ruffle her hair and call her little sister. “I warned Father.”

“Yes you did,” Vermithor spoke. “You cannot be blamed for that. You could not see how poisoned the Stag had become. But you can still do something, Arya Stark.”

“You know where he is,” Sunfyre said. “Where the Last Dragon is.”

“She is in Essos,” Arya answered.

“Then you better get moving, She-Wolf,” Vhagar said roughly. “Aegon and his sister-wives didn’t conquer the Seven Kingdoms from Dragonstone.”

“Save your brother,” Vermithor commanded. “Save Daenerys. Save the child.”

That was when she left the darkness, with Needle in hand. Arya looked back only once, to look at the bones of the dragons one last time. She promised she would bring Daenerys back, so that she could see them. She found her way back to the sewers, and just as before she used the river to wash away all of the dirt and grime and sweat off of her. She felt stronger as she emerged naked from the river, more pure and determined. It was like her doubts were washed away. She wondered if that was what Septa Mordane meant about a second life in the faith.

Washed and dripping from the river, she made her way onto the streets. Last time she had a clear destination. But Arya could see the Red Keep, but she couldn’t just walk to Essos. There was a narrow sea that stood in her way. Somehow Arya was going to need to find a ship. But that required money she didn’t have.

She could steal. She had done that plenty of times. But stealing something of worth was very different from stealing a loaf of bread. That was too dangerous, would attract too much attention. Not to mention silver candlesticks and golden plates were loud and noisy, while bread made no noise at all.

And there was the issue of Arya still being in King’s Landing. No doubt the lions and the stags were looking for her. Just because they haven’t found her for weeks didn’t mean they had given up the hunt. If she got caught, no doubt she would be dragged before the Queen. And if that happened, she would never escape again. And Jon would be as good as dead.

She can’t make risk it in King’s Landing. She had to leave the city. She peered at herself in the river. Arya wondered if maybe cleaning herself off wasn’t the best of ideas. Covered in dirt and grime, she was a common rat. But now that she was all washed off, she could be Arya Stark. She wove her hands through her hair. Arya Stark had long hair that went down her shoulders.

She bundled the hair in her hands, held them tight. And with Needle she hacked it through. Tufts of brown hair fell into the river. Everyone knew that Arya Stark had hair that went down her back. Nobody knew that her hair now only touched her neck. Now she was just another Northern girl in the South.

The girl made her way through the streets of the city. She smelled the sweet scent of loaves, and her stomach growled. As stubborn as stone. She remembered Syrio’s words. She ignored the desire to steal a loaf. The girl didn’t have hunger, didn’t have wants, didn’t bring attention to herself. The girl who desired to leave King’s Landing as quickly as she could.

There was a problem. The girl didn’t know the streets of the city. She knew the path to the castle, but that was the last place she needed to be. She could smell the salts of the sea, but she couldn’t take a ship. Not from any port in King’s Landing, not with all the guards. Even if the girl was, for only a day, not Arya Stark, it was too much of a risk.

She would need to find her way with the only method she knew. A lot of guesswork.

She knew the quickest way out of the city would be the Mud Gate. It was the closest gate to the Red Keep and the sewers she had emerged from. As well as the safest. None of the Baratheons or the Lannisters would think that the daughter of Lord Stark would be in the Muddy Way. But it was the furthest path from where she needed to go. Arya had to reach one of the ports. White Harbor would be safest, but that was all the way in the North. It could take her months to reach that.

The girl had to go east. She had to reach the Iron Gate. And that meant going through Flea Bottom, which could be almost as bad as going back into the Red Keep. Everyone knows that Flea Bottom was full of murderers and rapers. The most common delicacy was the Bowl of Brown, which was just as likely to be made up of the parts of the murdered as it was not. It simmered in pots for years and years before it was served in your bowls.

But there was no other choice. The girl slipped and tucked her way past the crowds. She merged with bunches of people so guards wouldn’t care to look at her. She remembered what her dancing instructor had told her. “See them before they see you, and you will win every battle.” With a quick eye, she would look at any man in armor or mail of chains, and whenever he thought to peek at her the girl would just duck her head or slip between someone in the crowd. And the guard would lose his interest, with maybe a shrug or a snort of his nose, and the girl would be on her way.

She knew she was in Flea Bottom when her shoes sank into streets of mud, and all she could smell was shit. The midday sun had given way to the moon, but she was making progress. She had arrived at more than a few dead ends, and had gone around in more than a few circles, but she was getting out of this city. All around her were men and women in rags and robes with holes and patches. Most children went without any clothes at all, unless you counted the layers of dirt on them.

The girl felt naked. She was dressed in simple clothes, but everyone in Flea Bottom barely had clothes at all. She could feel a dozen eyes pressed on her. She kept Needle close at her side.

She walked by bowl of brown shops. The girl didn’t know what a corpse smelled like, but she suspected it wasn’t nearly as bad as those giant canisters with their brown muck. She watched as someone used a rusted metal spoon to serve someone the brown. It was dark and putrid, and she saw a myriad of meaty bits clump together into the bowl. She felt her stomach turn.

Her feet marched quicker, moved faster through the crowds. Quick as a deer. Silent as death. Every moment she was in Flea Bottom, the weaker the girl felt. The dragon skulls weren’t nearly as frightening as this place.

Then she saw the walls of stone and iron rise above the mud huts and homes of straw. The Iron Gate. The eastern exit. She felt her heart rise up into her throat. She forced the fear back down into her gut. Fear cuts deeper than swords. She was too close now to be afraid. A few more steps and she would be free of the city. She didn’t give mind that horse shit clung to her shoes. She didn’t think just how dirty the air felt in the Bottom.

Soon, Arya was going to be free.

She saw that guards in golden and red coats hung below the archway. They didn’t look observant. Where they really looking for the daughter of Eddard Stark, or where they just a display of force? There was only seven, maybe nine of them, spread along the wall.

She slipped between the nooks in the crowd. She would become just another face in this giant mass of bodies. Just another traveler that was leaving the city. For a slice of a moment she looked up towards the guards. One of them yawned as he leaned against his spear. Another looked down on her as he scratched at his ugly beard. Then with a shrug he looked away.

Arya focused on the path ahead. She sucked in a breath as she passed by the Iron Gate. She kept moving. She didn’t stop when she felt the first bit of fresh air in hours. It smelled like dirt and flowers. Then she was racing, running, dashing out of the sight of the guards, sprinting a mad dash towards a hill with a tree. She fell on the roots, her face hit against the grass, and Arya was laughing and cheering and yelling all at once.

She was out of the city. She escaped King’s Landing.

Arya grabbed a fistful of grass. It has been so long since she felt something so soft. She stayed there for a few moments, letting the soft air dance across her sweaty skin. Then she got up and looked around. She had to find a ship east. King’s Landing was behind her and she was never going back. No way would she try going to Lannisport. That was without a doubt the one city more dangerous than King’s Landing. White Harbor was safer by far, but it was still months of walking. Months that she wouldn’t be able to reach Jon.

Then an idea came to her. The Riverlands were the lands sword to Mother’s family. Their cities almost always rested along one river or another, and the rivers would cut out into the sea. The Riverlands had plenty of ports – they weren’t big ports, but they all had ships. She couldn’t imagine that one of them wouldn’t have a ship going for Essos.

She walked down from the hill. She looked back towards the city. She thought of Sansa, but only for an instant. _I hope you are happy with your prince._ The thought made her feel bitter. She followed the road. The wind was at her back.

 

**THE KINGSGUARD**

 

The boy king squirmed in the iron chair. When King Aerys died, the dragon skulls were pulled from the wall. Now with his father dead, King Joffrey demanded that all of the hunting tapestries be torn from the wall and thrown into a bundle in the corner. That order was given near on a moon ago, and the decorated cloths were still tangled amongst each other.

It has been three days past since Illyn Payne delivered the head of Eddard Stark to Joffrey Baratheon, on the steps of the Sept of Baelor. In the shadow of the Lord Stark’s execution, King Joffrey was holding court for the first time. The throne room was filled with petitioners, but only those that the Crown favored. No Northman would be seen, except for Sansa Stark. Janos Slynt’s gold cloaks were stationed at all of the gates, as well as the red and gold swords of the Lannisters. Some of them once wore the black and yellow coats of the Baratheons, but after the death of the King, they were either absorbed into the house of the Regent Queen, or left the city.

Barristan could make out no sign of any small folk. Only sons and daughters of noble birth were making their way into the hall. They all stood around restless beneath the crimson banners of the lion. It was a small crowd, of no more than thirty by Barristan’s counting. He remembered when King Robert would hold court, the hall would easily fit a hundred.

The Lannister guards were lined on both sides of the hall, and more than a fair amount of the yellow cloaked City Guards were stationed at their side. The Kingsguard stood in front of the Iron Throne. Barristan could feel the heavy shadow of Aegon’s seat. He has been a Kingsguard for four kings now, and he never could escape the sense that the Iron Throne was always peering into him.

He watched as Lady Sansa made her way through the crowd, greeting in soft and polite tones. Many of them paid her no heed, or feigned coughing fits so they would not need to look upon her. Poor girl. She is an innocent in all of this.

The King’s council was seated at the table before the Iron Throne. There was the Grand Maester Pycelle, who always looked halfway between being dead and falling asleep. There was Littlefinger, who always seemed to find a way to slip talks of money into any conversation. The subject didn’t matter. And then there was the Spider, the one man Ser Barristan could not trust among them all. The man always spoke much too softly, and giggled with too much frequency, for Barristan to fully trust the eunuch.

Joffrey Baratheon would be the fourth king that Barristan had served. Four kings, and all but one of them dead before their time. One was killed by a traitor, and the other was speared by a boar. King Joffrey was dressed in crimson and black, and he looked as uncomfortable with the crown of stags that rested on his head as the petitioners did looking up to him. But he was young, and no amount of years could prepare you for the task of being king. Ser Barristan would see him old and wizened before his time was done.

Then he remembered how King Joffrey demanded Lord Stark’s head, after he had admitted to his treasons. He should have been allowed to take the black. He was a PaRamount Lord, and he should have been offered the decency of redemption. There was a bloodlust in the young Baratheon, and the thought filled Barristan with unease.

His thoughts were interrupted by a herald. “All hail His Grace, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. All hail his lady mother, Cersei of House Lannister, Queen Regent, Light of the West, and Protector of the Realm.”

Joffrey peered over the crowd, his chin rested on his fist. He smiled as he spoke, “It is the duty of the king to reward the honest and punish the wicked. Grand Maester Pycelle, I command you to read my decrees.”

The old man rose to his feet, his knees shaking beneath his red velvet robes. He unfurled a parchment from his sleeve and began to read a list of lords and ladies to swear fealty to Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name.  He began with the King’s uncle, Lord Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone, his lady wife and their young daughter. Then he demanded for Lord Renly of Storm’s End. Pycelle recited the names of many lords, and their vassels, that were sworn to either of the King’s uncles. From there was demanded the loyalty of House Tyrell, Lysa Tully of the Eyrie and her son Robert Arryn, and all those that were sworn to them. The Martells of Dorne were demanded allegiance, although Barristan doubted any child of Nymeria would be making their way to the Crownsland anytime soon.

And then, finally, the Starks. Barristan watched as all of Sansa’s brothers and sisters were demanded to approach the King, and swear their loyalty and fealty to him. When every name was spoken, Lady Sansa looked ready to break. The King has taken her father’s dead, and now he demands that all of her family bow to him.

Barristan thought it curious that Arya Stark’s loyalty was demanded. The girl had been missing ever since the attack on the Stark house guard. He had only seen little of the youngest Stark girl, but he had heard much, and all of it agreed that Arya was resourceful and fiercely spirited. He doubted Arya would utter one word of loyalty if she was dragged in, not even if she was bound and chained.

Pycelle rolled up his sleeve and uttered more decrees, none of which surprised Barristan. With the death of Lord Eddard Stark, as well as his admitted treasons, the King announced that his grandfather Tywin Lannister would take up mantle of Hand. Barristan wondered how long that would take, as the Lannister forces under his command were laying siege to the Riverlands. Most likely not well until this war was dealt with.

Then the Grand Maester announced that Queen Cersei would take up the role of Regent and take a place on his Small Council. Nervous murmurs rose up from the crowd. Those murmurs took on a furious shade when Pycelle announced that Jory Slynt, captain of the City Guard, be named lord and given the seat of Harrenhal. Barristan could understand the outrage. Many in attendance had been loyal to the crown for hundreds of years, some dating back to Aegon the Conqueror himself. Harrenhal could not be considered a noble seat, but it was a great one, and surely should have been honored to someone who at least had the means to maintain it. But it was not for the Kingsguard to question their charge. Jory Slynt had proven himself loyal to the Crown, and Harrenhal was as capable of a reward as any.

And then, Cersei summoned Barristan. “Ser Barristan Selmy, stand forth.”

He moved without hesitation. He took three bold steps in front of the throne, bent his knee and bowed his head. “Your Grace, I am yours to command.”

“Rise, Ser Barristan.” The Queen spoke with authority. “You may remove your helm.”

Apprehension gripped at him. “My Lady?” As he stood up he removed his white helm and held it at his side. His eyes glanced to his fellow Kingsguard, but their faces gave no answer.

“You have served the realm long, and in good faith, good Ser, and every man and woman in the Seven Kingdoms owes you their thanks.” He could hear the bells chiming. Barristan gritted his teeth. “Yet now your service is at an end. It is the wish of king and council that you lay down your heavy burdens.”

“My burdens?” The words sounded shaky in his throat. “I fear – I do not-“

Janos Slynt rose up, his voice blunt and impatient. “Her Grace is trying to say that you are relived as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.”

“Relieved?” Shock filled his throat. “Your Grace, the Kingsguard is a sworn brotherhood. Our vows are taken for life, until death.”

The Queen narrowed her eyes. “Whose death, Ser? Yours or your King’s?”

“You were with my father when he died,” Joffrey accused. “You failed him. You are too old to protect anyone.”

Barristan looked up to the King. The boy was young. The boy did not know what he was saying. But the Queen did. None protested the decree. Lords who knew what he had given up, lords that knew the sacrifices he had made. He had to appeal to the boy’s virtues. “Your Grace,” he began. It was hard to be courteous. He could feel the fear in his throat. “I was chosen for the White Swords in my twenty- third year. From the moment I held a sword, it was all I ever dreamed. To protect the King, to serve the realm with body and soul. When I said my vows over the corpse of Maelys the Monstrous, it was the happiest moment of my life. Ser Gerold Whitetower, the White Bull, I am certain you have heard of his valor. He himself heard my vows. I fought beside Prince Lewyn Martel, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. All men of worth and honor. I safeguarded the kings – all of them – with all of my strength, with all of my blood. I was a shield for three kings. King Jaehaerys, the Second of His Name, King Aerys, the Second-“

“All of them dead,” Littlefinger smiled. “All of them under your protection.”

“Your time is done,” Queen Cersei decided. “My son requires men of youth, strength and vigor. It has been decided that Ser Jammie Lannister will take your place as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.”

“Jamie Lannister.” The man who broke his vows. The man who sent the Targaryen dynasty crashing around him. The name was poison on his lips. “Kingslayer,” he corrected. “He will take my place? The man has soiled the white.”

“Careful Ser,” the Queen warned with her narrowed eyes. “He is the uncle of the King.”

Or his father, if rumors are truth. And as he looked on the boy, Barristan realized there was no strength in him. There was only malice.

“We are not unmindful of your years of service.” Varys spoke kindly, but they were poison. “Lord Tywin Lannister has been very gracious. He has provided a tract of land north of Lannisport, along the coast of the sea, along with the gold and men to build you a worthy keep.”

An insult upon insults. “A hall to die in, and men to bury me. I spit upon your pity.” He reached up and undid the clasp that held his white cloak. It fell to the ground in a heap. He threw his white helmet to the ground. “I am a knight,” he declared as he opened the fastenings to his breastplate. It clamored on the ground as it fell. “I will die as a knight.”

Littlefinger smiled. “A naked knight, it would appear.” They laughed then. The King, the Queen, Littlefinger, Varys, the petitioners in attendance. Even his brothers whom had served with him just a few moments ago. Arys Oakheart of Old Oak, although his smile was forced and unconvincing. Boros Blount roared behind his rolls of flesh, Mandom Moore had a pale and toothy grin, Meryn Tryn had a cruel spread of his lips, and Preston Greenfield, and Preston Greenfield created dimples in his face as he chuckled. An hour ago they would have fought to the death for the king. Now they humiliated him.

Barristan felt his fists shake as they tightened. He drew out his sword. Someone gasped as Boros and Meryn went forward, their white steel already in hand. Barristan glowered at them. “Have no fear. Your king is safe. I cut through the five of you like a knife to a cake! Here, boy.” He threw his steel onto the ground. “Melt it down and add it to the others!”

He did not go out any of the side gates. He took the long way down the hall. The petitioners moved out of the way to let him pass. His metal greaves echoed down the hall. All looked at him with a mixture of fear and silent fury, but Barristan managed to see Sansa Stark out of the corner of his eye. Only she looked at him with pity. The attendants opened the massive wooden door for him, and he stepped out of the throne hall.

Barristan made his way to the White Sword Tower. Ever since he was two and twenty he called this place his home. It was where he dined with his sworn brothers. Gerold Hightower would always be sitting alongside the window ridges, looking down over the bay. Ser Arthur Dayne would never rise with him. True to his name, the Sword of the Morning was always the first to awaken, and would usually be found in the training yards while everyone fasted. Prince Lewyn Martell was the opposite; he was always the last to awaken, and he always had a friendly jape on his lips. They were all good men. In the quiet moments of the day, Barristan missed them. They were the finest knights he had ever known. They were his friends.

He felt the white table where they would meet and discuss. It was carved from an ancient weirwood, and was crafted into the shape of a shield. How often he had heard the laughs of Arthur Dayne, and the stern and careful words of the Bull. They had all died for the dragons. Why was he here, when they had departed? They had fulfilled their vows, while the Crown had ripped his from his heart.

Barristan closed his fingers into a fist. Two old to protect anyone, the boy had said. The boy was a fool. He was still a kingsguard. He remembered that there was still a Targaryen left in the world. She was pregnant. King Robert had sent assassins to end them once and for all. Barristan was not too old to do what he was meant to do. He could still serve.

He was still a knight.

He tore his garments off as he entered his chambers. He needed only clothes and arms. He wrapped himself in a dark cloak and held a long sword in his hands. His time was not done yet.

He sheathed the blade and left the tower.

 

**THE DAUGHTER OF WINTERFELL**

 

The comet cut through the black sky, its red trail a thin finger that ripped away at the darkness. Sansa had been taught by Maester Luwin that omens and prophecies held no power. And yet, whenever Sansa stared up into the pink fade left by the comet, she felt stronger. She thought of the stories of the Children in the Forest, and of the Others, and of the First Men, and her steps became easier.

The man led the way, quickly speaking in hushed tones to move with haste. He instructed her to keep her hood up at all times, and to avoid any wayward glances. Especially from that of a Lannister soldier to a Gold Cloak. The man with the soft hands led her through the Street of Flour and into the wooden house. She could hear the wood creak as the wind passed through them.

It was small and unadorned. There were no silver candlesticks, no carpets of a hundred different colors. The windows weren’t even draped. There was only a small table in its center, and some beds that were surely stuffed with hay rather than feathers. Ser Barristan Selmy was pacing, his hands knotted into a fist behind him. He was not in the beautiful white armor of the Kingsguard. He was wrapped in a black cloak, and Sansa could see even darker clothes beneath it. She heard the clinging of a sword as he turned to her.

Sansa pulled back her hood. She had never spoken with a member of the Kingsguard before, but she remembered her courtesies. “Ser Barristan,” she greeted.

“Lady Sansa?” The knight looked at her in astonishment. “What are you-“

Lord Varys pulled back his hood. “Her presence is because of you, Ser.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Ser Barristan demanded. “I was promised passage.”

“By one of my men,” Lord Varys smiled. “Not all of my birds are tongueless children, Kingsguard. Some are men who have fallen into my favor.”

“I am Kingsguard no more. Not after what your boy king did today. What do you want, Spider?”

“Lady Sansa was most adamant to speak with you. I could not deny her that, not after how sweetly and passionate she spoke her words.”

“My Lady.” And his words became soft and considerate. “I can no longer serve your betrothed. I am Kingsguard no longer.”

Varys had instructed her on what to say, but all the words seemed false in her mind. She remembered what her father had told her. “Ser Barristan, you are a true knight. You wish to serve the realm, to protect a true king.” Joffrey made her look at her father’s head. “I have a wish as well, Ser. To protect my brother. Jon is baseborn, but he is still my brother.” She remembered what Arya would always tell her, that Jon was her brother, that it didn’t matter that he was a bastard. She felt so stupid. She should have listened. “Has King Robert sent knives after him and Daenerys?”

Ser Barristan breathed. “Without a doubt. King Robert’s wrath towards the Targaryens were beyond reproach. Your Father and I advised a more honored road, but he would not take it.”

Sansa was a Stark of Winterfell. Jon was a son of Winterfell. “Ser, my brother Robb marches south as we speak. But I cannot stay in the capitol.” Not with her prince. Not with the man that made her look at Father’s head. “My mother is surely in Winterfell. My brothers Rickon and Bran are in Winterfell. Arya is…she is missing. None have seen her for a month. I am all that is left. So long as I remain here, the Lannisters can use me. I can be a weapon to be used against my family.”

Ser Barristan sighed. “Those are true words, My Lady. You would be an honored hostage, well taken care of.”

“Do you truly believe that, Kingsguard?” Varys smiled, but the words did not sound pleasant. Ser Barristan did not look convinced. Sansa saw doubt fill his gray eyes.

“Lord Varys has told me that you mean to serve Daenerys Targaryen. To rescue my brother. I beg you, take me with you.”

“She was most adamant when I provided the possibility of escape. I suppose seeing her betrothed’s true worth made her all so willing to flee. I did promise her father that I would rescue her, if the opportunity presented itself. And you have provided a wonderful cover, Ser. It would not seem so strange a thing, for a knight known as the Bold to whisk a beautiful princess away in the dead of night. In fact, some would proclaim it to be almost poetic.”

Ser Barristan did not turn to face Lord Varys. “My Lady,” he said gravely, “this is dangerous action. I cannot promise your safety. Stay in the Holdfast, I beg you. Joffrey is no king, but he is-“

“A monster.” She could feel the tears form in her eyes. “He killed my father, when he admitted to false treasons. I knew my father, he would never desire to put Jon on the throne. But Joffrey killed him anyway. He made me look at his head on the castle walls. He is a monster. How am I more safe under his protection than I am with you? I cannot remain here in King’s Landing. If I do not come with you, I am trapped here. With the family that killed my father, that sends knives after my half-brother, and marches against Robb in the North.”

“Sansa,” the knight said after some time, “can you swear to me that this is your decision? That the Master of Whispers is not putting you under any threat?”

“He is not.” She tried to sound as firm and true as she can be. “I want to come because I wish it. My father wanted Jon to come home. And I cannot claim to know Jon, but he wouldn’t betray my family. He wouldn’t betray father. Those words that my father said outside Baelor’s Septs were lies, Ser. I know it.”

Ser Barristan looked towards Lord Varys. “Why send her to me? If you care for the girl’s safety, why not send her to White Harbor?”

Lord Varys shook his head. “Using what ship, pray tell? No vessel shall leave from King’s Landing towards the North, especially with Dragonstone being in the way. I could not risk her on the road north. A thousand and one deaths await her on that path. Ser, the only safety she has is with you, on the journey to her brother and Daenerys. Unless you would fit to see her with Joffrey, the First of His Name. And all three of us know the type of king that boy is.”

“My Lady, do you insist upon this?”

“I do, Ser.”

Ser Barristan gave a short nod. Then he bent to his knee. “My Lady, I promise to take your life into my hands. I swear to protect you, from here and across the sea. I promise to deliver you into the safeguard of your brother. I will not rest until I know you are well and truly safe.”

A knight had sworn a vow to her. Ser Barristan had promised to protect her. It was such a strange thing. She remembered all of the songs that were sung to her, of knights fighting with all their might until their last moments. She looked into Ser Barristan’s gray eyes, and she saw only determination. She did not deserve this, but she could not deny Ser Barristan. “Ser Barristan.” The words sounded shaky and unsure. She did not quite know how to voice her thoughts. “I accept your vow.”

Ser Barristan rose to his feet. He looked like a man that was renewed. There was a small smile on his face that lasted for only a shadow of a moment. He turned to Lord Varys, his face all stone. “Your man spoke of transport.”

“In a few days a trade barge shall be departing for Pentos. You will be brought into the hold under the cover of darkness. From there I have a good friend who shall aid you in finding Jon Snow and Daenerys Targayen. Until then, you are not to leave this place. It is far too dangerous. I will give the Lannisters a false lead towards the King’s Road, away from the ships.” Varys pulled the hood over him. “I must go now, before my absence is noted. Lady Sansa’s surely will be.”

“Lord Varys.” He turned to face her. “You spoke of a promise to my father. But that is not why you are doing this, not truly.”

Lord Varys smiled. “My Lady, you learn quickly. I am not doing this for your Lord Father. Nor am I doing this for your sake. I serve only the realm.”


	6. Treasons of Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The coming of wolves, and the fires of a dragon comes up short.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.chaosinferred.com/creative/asoiaf/dragons/6-treasons-of-memory/

 

**VI**

**TREASONS OF MEMORY**

 

**THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL**

 

No-Eyes’ grip was as strong as steel. His tanned arms wrapped around Jon. He planted his feet into the rugs of the temple, in a vain attempt to find his footing. Jon could smell the man’s hot breath on him as they pressed against each other, each of them doing their damnest to best the other.

Jon felt the wind creak in from the gaps in the wall of the temple, and the cold sent prickles up his back. He was almost naked, dressed only in his small clothes. No-Eyes had insisted on it, saying a good wrestle should be determined only by your body. Jon felt weak and exposed without any of his clothes. His wolf-marked sword was nestled in the corner, a sentry for his bundles of clothing.

No-Eyes pushed against Jon, and he felt his footing slip an inch. He pushed back and regained his footing. Jon felt the beads of sweat tread down his face, and it irritated him. “Do not lose focus,” No-Eyes said, calm as still water. “Know that is when death comes.”

“I know how to survive a battle,” Jon grunted.

“Your scars say otherwise.”

Then Jon felt pain in his heel, and he slipped, and before he could say anything No-Eyes had his arms wrapped around his throat. Jon choked as he slapped at the wily arms. No-Eyes laughed as he released him. “Your actions say more,” No-Eyes smiled. He offered a hand. Jon took it and was brought to his feet. His heart was pounding in his chest, fighting to be burst open. “How is your hand?”

Jon balled his scarred hand into a fist. It had been only a few weeks since he had returned from the burning of Vaes Dothrak. The healer slaves knew their craft just as well as any master. Whenever he bent his fingers Jon felt a tingle at the joints, and at rare occasions sharp moments of pain. But the idea that Jon would lose his hand had melt away. But when the healers unwrapped the silk from his hand, and peeled away the crust of the dried poultice, Jon knew his sword arm would be scarred for the rest of his days.

“I won’t be losing it. Not from these wounds, at least.”

“A small relief,” No-Eyes chirped. “It’s a wonder you are standing before me. The hakkar is not something to be taken lightly. Bands of riders are often needed to take one down, and the pride of the pelt is given to a khal. For good reason.”

“Because khals are arrogant and demand everything from their men?”

No-Eyes shook his head. “Your tongue may get you killed someday, Andal. No, the khal gets the pelt because slaying a hakkar is often just as much a test of leadership as it is of strength. Two men slaying a hakkar alone is unheard of.”

“Two men, and a _wolf_.”

No-Eyes followed. “One ghost fought another.” A curious silence followed. “It is said, among the seer-wives and the shadow speakers, that the hakkar is the specter of the fallen. That to hunt the hakkar is to hunt death itself.” _And the hakkar lunged for me first. Drogo surely has the blood of thousands on his hands, and yet he went ignored by the beast._

No-Eyes clicked his tongue and slaves arrived with a jug of wine and wooden bowls. Jon sipped at the mare-wine, and welcomed the refreshing sour taste down his throat. “So, what lesson was I supposed to take from all this? The wrestling, all this talk of death.”

“Who said anything about a lesson? Perhaps I felt like having a good contest.” He sipped from the bowl. “And maybe I like to boast how one of my students survive a brush with death?” No-Eyes chuckled with amusement.

“Good contest or not,” Jon said, “you were the one that talked about learning from a man who knew his body and soul.”

No-Eyes put the bowl down. “That was a long time ago. That was when the Andal named Jon Snow was a very different man. That Jon Snow had no wants, only a sense of duty. He did not know himself. He only knew of what others named him.”

Jon narrowed his eyes. “And what you would name me?”

The smile faded from No-Eyes. “Student,” he suggested. “And friend as well. Every student and master becomes friends in the end, I think. They both know of each other, learn from the other. Only lovers are closer, in my experience. And it is a far more dangerous relationship. With just a breath, one could break the other.”

“You call me friend,” Jon said. He didn’t mean for it to have a bite, but he was shocked at the revelation. They had shared meals together. Jon learned of No-Eyes bitter japes and his stern words, and how eagerly the blind man loved to test his strength. But Jon could not read the man. The cloth wrapped around his face was a mask, and Jon could not say he knew the man behind it. “And yet I know so little of you.”

“Well,” No-Eyes began, “by my own admission we are friends sharing some mare-wine. Ask, and I will answer.”

“Your eyes,” Jon said. “Tell me the story behind your title.”

No-Eyes became very still. It was as if Jon had struck him, in a place that was meant for him alone. “I would not have you know this.”

“I would know this,” Jon pressed. “We are friends, as you say. I want to know. Need to know. You were not born as such. I would know who it was that took your sight. Tell me how you became No-Eyes.

“Very well,” and the weakness in the man’s voice almost shamed Jon. “You know what I am; Lhazere and Dothraki both.”

“You claimed it was not too uncommon. Dothraki take who they want after a battle. ‘Spread their seed’ were your words.”

No-Eyes nodded. “My mother was no doubt one of the sheep people, while my father was probably a rider for some Khal who is no doubt dead because of Drogo or Bharbo. It doesn’t matter – I knew neither of them. For as long as I remembered, I was a student in the Knowing Path. I grew up in one of the temples that overlooked one of the villages. I was taught how to make my body sing the blood songs, and I was enlightened on how to reap the fruits from the gardens of Estrobar. I learned of those that saw with the Seven-Hundred-and-One Eyes, although I never knew the gift myself. But above all, I was taught what it meant to know myself, and how to teach that to others.”

At that, No-Eyes became quiet. He looked down at his hands, his fingers trailing the lines of his palm. “Andal, a day may come when you find someone. And they are more real than all the world, that you were never lived until the day your paths crossed.”

“I know of such,” Jon said.

“Maybe so,” he smiled. “There was a man that came to the temple, and his name was Irolo. He had the Dothraki look, but so did many. As I once said to you, the horselords spread their seed. At first, I called him my friend.” He was quiet, and Jon watched as his fingers became very still. “Then we became more than friends.” No-Eyes raised his head. “That man is more real to me than anything else. He is more real to me than you ever could be. I can almost see him. I can remember how white his smile was, how his dark eyes would shine when he would laugh. How tender his caress.

“Know that I loved him, this man called Irolo. He spent a few months with us, and I never knew greater pleasures. I would never have children of my own, but I promised I would protect his. He told me that he would see such words fulfilled. When he left, I thought I would never see him again. In ways, I was right.

“Iargo left. And he was replaced by the Dothraki of Khal Bharbo. We fought, as we were made to do. Every man of the Knowing Path knows the lines of their form, of the Push and the Pull of the duality. Every man possesses them, but only we that walk the Path know it. We bled the Khalasar for every step. But in the end the men and women I called brothers were made into a bloody heap at the temple gates. Some were mere boys and girls that I had taught.

“And I alone was brought towards Khal Bharbo. I was expecting a scarred barbarian in horse leathers. I wasn’t expecting Irolo, my friend, to be looking down on me astride his stallion, his bloodriders beside him. Words were exchanged, and I demanded why he didn’t kill me. Why he didn’t deny me the pleasure of death. Because how could life be worth living after such a betrayal? I still do not have the answer.” There was a bitter smile on No-Eyes face.

“Khal Bharbo reminded me of my words, of the promise I made to him. And so I was bound to him and his blood. I defied him as much as I could. One day I was brought forth, and he told me he would do me a favor. He would remove that which prevented me from fulfilling my promise.” No-Eyes tore the cloth from his face, and where there should have been eyes were replaced with the pits to the abyss. The flesh around them were weaves of scars. “He brought a torch to my face and burnt out my eyes. And he took my name and gave me the title of No-Eyes. Because it was true.”

“You cannot see. And yet-“

“I move like I can?” No-Eyes shrugged. “Patience and stubbornness have always been some of my better virtues. You don’t need eyes to see, Jon. People are predictable, so it is not so hard to go through a crowd. I can hear, so I can guess who is coming to me. Your body is full of suspicions. Have you never felt a tightening in your gut, telling you something is wrong?”

He thought of the day when Bran fell. “Of course I have.”

“I feel that every day. All of my senses and abilities have granted me sight. All it took were a cascade of bruises, some broken noses, a bloody lip or two…and bumping into plenty of walls.” No-Eyes rubbed at his chin. “And a few dented teeth.”

“How long?” Jon asked. No-Eyes gave Jon a curious look. “How much longer, until you are free form your oath?”

“Never,” he said. “Only when Khal Drogo is dead, along with all of his blood and kin. Murder him and his mother would absolve me. And yet, I held him in my arms. I can say I care for him. He is not mine, and I will never have a son. But through Drogo, I learned what it was like to have a son. I held him close. I taught him the best I could. I hate what he has done. Murder and rape. Buying your Daenerys. I told him he should have married the daughter of one of his kos, but he would not listen. A wife should not be a slave.

“And yet I am proud of him. He has accomplished what no other Khal has done. He has united all of the Dothraki. He is transforming them. How can I not swell with pride?”

“Even though you are bound by your oath?”

“Even then. I will die a slave, but that is because of Khal Bharbo. Drogo is innocent of that much at least.”

Jon was not satisfied. No-Eyes had beaten and shamed him. He had humiliated Jon a thousand times in his lessons. He toyed with Jon. He mocked what Father taught him. But the man was kind as well. He offered advice, as misguided as it was. No-Eyes tried to teach Jon how to survive among the Dothraki. Jon could not hate the man for that. They had shared wine together, and even a few laughs from time to time. “I don’t believe that. I swear to you, No-Eyes, I will find a way to free you of your oath. You will not die a slave.”

Jon felt the abyss stare back at him. “Know this, Jon Snow. By your words, you have bound us both.”

 

**THE SHE-WOLF OF WINTERFELL**

 

On the road, she kept dreaming bloody and savage dreams. She was always a wolf, the biggest wolf in all the woods, and she was hunting weak men. The weak men were always dressed in crimson and gold, and had the lion stamped over their breast. She always struck from the shadows, from the places where lions would not think to look. She would rip through flesh and crush bone in her massive maw, and they would yelp and scream. They would fire arrows and throw spears, but they would either miss or just graze her. Sometimes there would be a man in armor, and he was always the most dangerous. But she would find a way to rip his neck to ribbons, and he would be dead like the rest of them.

It had been a week since Arya had managed to slip from King’s Landing. Or, at least that’s how long she thought it was. She had the red dream seven times now, and Arya was certain it came whenever she slept. Not on the light dazes she would take every few hours or so, when she needed to rest her feet. The ones where she would sleep for hours and hours, and her mind and memory would be swept up in the dreams. Whenever she woke up, nestled among the grasses or tree roots, she felt renewed and stronger. Sore and irritable all over from bug bites, but stronger nonetheless.

Arya had passed by Duskendale a few days ago. The keep was on the shore, and Arya could see ships sailing in and out of the harbor. But Arya couldn’t risk it. She was still too close to King’s Landing, and there was always the chance that someone could recognize her, even if she did cut away at her hair. She kept going north, following the road.

But never on it. She always looked over it as she crept through the woods, the damp grass crushed beneath her shoes. It was safer among the roots and weeds than on the dirt roads. Arya often saw men on horses and ferried on wagons. It would be a rare sight when she saw someone with a lion symbol stitched to their chest, or dressed in the Lannister colors, but they all carried swords, and they all could talk of the girl with the Needle. A stray word could as dangerous as someone with a sword.

It was easier now that she found a horse. Just on the morrow before, after she woke up from another of those red dreams, she came upon a massacre. A small bunch of Lannister men, their blood seeped into the crimson of their armor. Many of them were missing limbs, and one of them had his throat ripped apart despite how he was covered in armor. A brown mare was tied to a tree, whining a tantrum as Arya approached. She was able to calm it with a bit of sugar she found among the bodies.

Now that she was astride it would be easier. Arya still didn’t know where she would go, but wherever she decides upon, she will reach it quicker than she would on foot. She pulled out a map that she stole from one of the corpses. She knew that she wasn’t far from the Riverlands. She passed by Duskendale, and that wasn’t too far from the edge of the Crownlands. That was where most of the Lannister soldiers would be, she was certain of that much. If she just kept on following the road, she’ll pass by fisher towns and trading holds. One of them would be safe enough for her to sail.

She took to the hills and the root ridden paths more often than the roads. She knew that the road was safer, but it could be crawling with swords sworn to the Lannisters. There were bears and wolves in the woods, but Arya wasn’t afraid. She had Needle at her side, she remembered Jon’s parting words, and Syrio did not have a poor student.

She always slept in the darkness. Arya could have gathered some twigs and set to fire, but it was too dangerous. The light would gather attention – from both lions and beasts. The first few nights were the hardest. She would find herself twitching awake whenever she heard any twig snap or branch shuffle in the wind. Sleep would only come when her eyes became too heavy for her paranoia. But eventually she grew used to the sounds, and once she found a tree to snuggle her head against, she slept as easily as a babe.

She had watched Father die. She was swept away by the flood of the people in Baelor’s Square, and she was too far away. She had drawn out Needle, and she tried to squeeze past the crowd. But she was too slow, too clumsy. She could only watch as Ser Ilyn Payne held Ice in his hands, and used it to put an end to Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. The night her father died was the first time she noticed the comet. Against her tears it was a wet blob of red against the night sky.

But now, all those weeks after, the comet was a fierce thing. It was a dark crimson force that cut away at the night. Whenever she would look at it, she felt stronger. As she left King’s Landing, it grew in size. As she made her way through the dark forests of the Crownlands, it was unmistakable. _The closer I come to Jon, the stronger it becomes. And I am stronger too_. The first night she slept under the trees, the comet had lit her path. And that was the first night she had the savage dreams, and the first time she felt so determined and sure.

That night she dreamt again, but this time it wasn’t covered in blood and screams. The moon was full as she ran under it. She was faster than anything else in the wood. The dark green leaves and the gray grasses were a blur in her eyes. She could still taste the blood of the mare in her throat. It slipped from her maw and dripped onto the earth. Men with swords and dressed in steel could follow her, if they wanted to.

Let them.

She rushed between the trees. It was time to hunt, but not for food. She smelled something in the air, a scent that was familiar and good. She remembered the gentle touch and playful smirk. Everything was a blur, the trees and the pale grasses swirling together as she raced beyond them.

The smell was everywhere now. She had found the girl nocked among the trees, her head rested against the groove. The night so was dark the face could not be seen, but the shape was too familiar to be anyone else. She padded with care towards the sleeping girl. There was a horse tied to a tree. The meat whined and protested in her approach.

And then the girl woke up, and the world of deep darkness and high whites became flushed with color, with the bright leaves dampened by the night, the soiled grass, her soiled clothes, a strong sense of smell that faded, and sight that strained to see what stood before her.

A face she knew well, one that she loved since first saw it when it was just a pup. The name “Nymeria” came to her lips, just as much one of shock as of love. The golden eyes of the wolf looked down on her. Arya remembered how she cast stones at her, with Jory aiding her, to send the direwolf away. A cruel act that was only driven by love. She was never meant to see Nymeria again, to never smell the musky arura of her fur, to see the golden glint of her eyes.

“Nymeria?” she said again, her body weaker at the uttering, her fingers trembling at the grass. She did not so much rise to her feet as she did summon the strength to do so. Her entire body was shaking. Arya could feel the clattering of her teeth echo into her bones.

And all the while, the direwolf watched. She was bigger than when they parted. Before she was the size of a small dog, but one with a ferocious bite. Now she almost stood nuzzle to Arya’s face. Neither wolf nor girl were done growing, but Arya was nearly a woman grown. Could Nymeria grow to be larger still, achieve the great sizes that the legends claimed that direwolves could reach?

Would feasting on the bones of her master aid her in such a task?

The direwolf had been living off the lands for a long time. She could see the dirt that was rubbed into her furs, could smell the faint stench of blood from her maw. “Have you forgotten me?” Never a day had Arya forgotten her. _I should not be scared of her. Not of Nymeria. Not of my wolf._ But she knew that it was fear that kept Arya from reaching out to her.

_As fierce as a wolverine, as swift as a deer, as brave as a wolf._

She found her fingers reaching for Nymeria. She half expected Nymeria to snap and growl, her golden eyes to turn fierce and feral. “You are a wolf and so am I,” Arya said. She spoke just as much to Nymeria as she did to herself. _A wolf remembers her pack._

Then Arya’s fingers found Nymeria, found the fur. They were wet and soft, and her ears felt like velvet against her fingers. Nymeria nuzzled herself against Arya’s shoulders, and she could feel the tears coursing down her cheek. “Nymeria,” she choked. “You didn’t forget me.” Her lips shook, and she could only feel a rush as she wrapped her arms around the wolf’s neck. Nymeria rubbed her wide shoulder against Arya’s neck, and all that Arya could smell was the musk of her wolf.

That night she rested against Nymeria’s massive flank. It was a deep slumber, one she hadn’t truly felt since she left Winterfell. Even in King’s Landing there was never the sense that she was home. Such sleep hadn’t come so easily to her for weeks. In the morning she rode north, Nymeria padding at her side. The brown mare whined and protested to the wolf’s presence, but Arya was able to soothe the horse easily enough. After whispering a few words the mare was content. She stayed to the forests that overlooked the road, but she didn’t have any fear now. Not from Lannister men, or from the beasts of the forests. Not with Nymeria at her side.

By day she rode. Nymeria would sometimes be at Arya’s side, but on most days Nymeria had gone on ahead without her. Nymeria would return to her every night, game in her mouth and her fur specked with blood. At night she would tie the horse to a tree and rest against Nymeria. The warmth of the wolf contrasted against the cold night. It reminded her of Winterfell, where she would be covered in bear and wolf furs, and a hearth would warm up her toes.

 _We’re coming Jon_. The promise filled her with determination. _We’re bringing you home. You and Daenerys and your child._ She knew she had to decide on a port. Arya was certain she was out of the Crownlands by now. It had been too long since she had ridden past Duskendale. She would be nowhere close to Riverrun, but she had to be in the Riverlands now. She consoled the map against Nymeria’s belly. The wolf gave her an irritated look. “Just stay still,” she growled as she flattened the cracked parchment.

Maidenpool. She had heard of the fishing town. It was a town, but it wasn’t a _small_ one. It had a harbor. It wasn’t the most desirable of ports, but some Essosi could throw lines there. Arya could have sworn she had heard a tourney was held there once. Maybe Sansa was the one that said it. She rolled up the parchment and stuffed it down her shirt. She would attempt Maidenpool, try and see if she could pay for a ship there. Likely as not she would need to move on. But it was worth a chance.

The second day after she made her plan, Arya knew she found it. The seagulls beat their wings against the sun. Maidenpool loomed over her and Nymeria as they crept out of the woods. The town’s stone walls were pink and weathered, but they didn’t look scary at all. Any man with half of a wit could have found a way past them, as thin and whimsy as they were.

“Wait here,” she told Nymeria. She turned the mare towards the pink walls. Nymeria wined in protest. “I’ll be back,” she soothed. “I need to find us a ship, so that we can find Jon and Ghost. I’ll be back.” With a nudge of her ankles the mare trotted into town.

The cries of the seagulls were louder behind Maidenpool’s pink walls. Arya knew that one of Sansa’s favorite songs were the namesake of the place, but it didn’t look all that interesting to her. The place was decked in the banners of a red trout on a white field. Arya was almost tempted to say it was the sigil of the Tullys, but she knew that the Tully trout was as white as the Stark wolf. Whichever house claimed the red trout, they must have been one of her grandfather’s bannermen.

As she trotted to the shore, Arya could see that the river was filled with men in small boats. Some of them were the small, bowl-shaped coracles, and she could smell the sour taste of clams in the air. Most were in fishing boats, and the men aboard them casted wide nets to catch whatever fish they could. She could hear them flop on the harbor.

There was one ship that looked even capable of sailing the Narrow Sea. She approached a man with dark skin and even darker eyes. His clothes were strained white by the sea spray. The man was shouting out orders and commands to men loading crates onto his hold.

“Are you the captain of this ship?”

“He is the _Son of Myr_ , and he is mine. Whose asking?” The man spoke the common tongue with strain and effort. But Arya could understand him well enough.

“A girl that wants out of the Seven Kingdoms. Which city does the Son call home?”

“Myr, the greatest of all the Free Cities.” The man smiled, and his dark mustache stretched across his fat lips. “And I am welcome to return to it. You Westerosi make for shit traders, and this war that is brewing has pissed all over my trading prospects. Had to turn from King’s Landing. Heard some princess made an escape.”

 _They are looking for me still._ “Let me give you a return, then.” She pulled out the purse that she cut off of one of the corpses and pulled out five silver stags. “For passage to Myr.” She offered the coins to the captain.

The man narrowed his eyebrows as he looked it over. “This won’t do. Not enough for board and food. A pretty thing like you won’t survive the decks of my Son.”

“Feel my hands,” she demanded. She put her right hand forth, and the Myrman thumbed at her palm. He hummed as he did so. “Do they feel like the hands of a pretty thing, or someone that knows how to sweat and bleed?”

“Sweat, mayhaps. Bleed I am not so certain.” He eyed at Needle. “Do you know how to use that thing?”

“Enough to poke any pirate full of holes.”

The Myrish sucked on his teeth. “I am only half inclined to believe you. But I do like the weight of the coins, girl. I mean to set sail by night’s end. You will be working the ropes and the sail.”

“That’s fair with me.” She pulled two more silver stags. “Those are for my pet.”

The captain narrowed his eyes. “Your pet? You said nothing a pet girl. Still…” The silver chimed together in his palm. “How big is this pet?”

“Big enough,” she said with a toothy grin.

The man frowned. “One more silver.”

 

**THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE**

 

She felt the weight of her son as she rose from the bed. Drogo’s seed slithered down her legs as slaves fastened a robe around her. Drogo groaned as he shifted in the bed. “Wine,” he said softly. His dark eyes looked longingly towards the vase of the Myrish Blue. Dany lifted the vase and turned her back to Drogo. She looked to the slaves with the corner of her eye. She felt her heart thunder. _Too unsafe. Not today. Doreah never said it had to be a daily occurrence. Just a common one._ With regret she poured the wine into the cup, untainted by the powder. She turned to Drogo and remembered Doreah’s words. _It is easier if you smile, Khaleesi. It is safer if you do. A smile can be a sweet lie, the sweetest lie a man can know. And if a sweet lie saves your son, it is worth it._ Dany smiled, but it felt false on her lips. She remembered the way she would grin when Jon’s fingers would touch hers as they passed in the halls. She tried to smile that same way, but it all felt hollow.

Drogo’s lips twisted upwards as she passed the cup into his hands. “The Myrish have a great gift in their vineyards. When our son is born, I will share some it with you. Perhaps I shall force them to name a wine in your honor?”

“That would please me.” _A smile can be a lie_. She laid on the bed beside Drogo.

In the weeks since Vaes Dothrak burned, Dany did as she promised. She gave Drogo no ground for suspicion. She laughed at his brutish jests, feigned wonderment at the scars on his flesh, and lied with pleasure as he plowed her. And Doreah would slip her the small pouches filled with the poison. She remembered how much her hands trembled as she loosened the strings, fearing that Drogo would somehow hear even the smallest sound. But Drogo heard nothing, and the powder dissolved into the wine.

And she fed Drogo the poisons again and again. And he drank it, again and again. Still he lived, still he breathed, and still her son’s life was in danger.

“Khaleesi, remember,” Doreah said on the first night when she pressed the pouch into her hands. “This is called the slow death for a reason. It will take many, many moons for his heart to cease. It will look a natural affliction, and none shall ever doubt you. But you will smile for a long time. You will gift him wine for a long time. Be patient. And above all, be _careful_.”

She felt a knot in her stomach. It was not her child, she knew. It was too soon for that. Her belly was only a small lump now, a tiny incline below her breasts. But whenever she looked at Drogo as he drank, she couldn’t help but feel fear. So long as the Khal lived, everything she loved was in danger.

Thinking back now, Dany wished she had taken Jon’s counsel and rejected the marriage. It would have been so much easier. Perhaps she would have found her strength and pride on the road, as they hid from the eyes of Illyrio Mopatis. Perhaps they would have found their love in the same way. But that was in the past. _And I need Doreah’s poisons to keep my future alive_.

Drogo mumbled words to her, and she smiled back at him. Then Drogo’s fingers lost their grip on the glass, and it rolled away from him onto the floor. He snored softly, his scared bronze chest rising up and down as he breathed. _If I had a knife, he would be dead._ But so would she and Jon and their son. Patience was not a dragon’s virtue.

But there was value in it. Drogo was _dying._ Could there ever be a thought so sweet? Dany had felt it when Drogo dragged himself off the bed. It was a subtle thing, but Dany remembered when Drogo moved as light as air. Now there was a weight in his steps. His breathing was shallower. There were small things, but Dany saw them. She savored them. Sometimes she would put a reassured hand on her belly, her heart swelling with the promise that her son would live.

When the next day came, her handmaidens attended to her. All they could talk about was the red comet that streaked through the sky. It had been in the sky for a month now, and it was still as bright and fearsome as ever. It was further along, and in time it would vanish entirely. But how long would it remain? “What do you think it means?” Dany had asked Jhiqui as she tightened the braids in her hair.

“It is a gift from the Great Stallion, Khaleesi. To show favor to your husband.”

“It is known,” Irri agreed. With a damp rag, she wiped away all of the night sweats. “The Great Stallion has sent a flaming horse in the sky, to show the Khal the way to glory.” _But flames burns all, except for the Dragon._

Doreah’s fingers rubbed at her feet. They were precise; she knew exactly where Dany was aching the most. Doreah told her it was a gift she learned in the pillow houses of Lys – that a pillow slave did more than bed, but attended to all wants of the body. _As well as poisons for those that deserved it_. “It could be a sign of changes to come, Khaleesi.” Dany caught the glint in the Lyseni’s eyes, and the two conspirators shared a silent, amused moment.

“Of course it is a sign of change,” Irri said. She padded away the sweats around Dany’s breasts. “Nothing so bright and powerful could be anything less.”

“The Khal shall conquer all of the world, Khaleesi.” Jhiqui’s fingers brought the braids together into a thick band. “The Great Stallion heard your prayers, surely. Your husband will bring you home.” _My husband will be ash when I return home._ She thought of the ship she would be on, holding her son close to her chest when she would see Westeros for the first time. She couldn’t keep the smile from her face.

Then she heard proud footsteps stomp outside her chambers. “I would speak with my sister!” Viserys commanded.

Dany sighed. She shrugged Irri and Jhiqui off of her. “Tighten my dress,” she said. She rose to her feet and pushed her dress onto her shoulders. “Let him in.”

The wooden door swung open as Viserys marched in. He was dressed in a black garment, and a poor rendering of the Targaryen dragon was stitched at his shoulder. “I would have words, sister. Alone.”

She rose her chin. “Any words you have can be shared in front of my handmaids.”

“Especially those concerning the bastard?”

She felt her heart claw up her throat. “Leave,” she said as she turned towards the handmaidens. It took all she had to keep her words from shivering.

“But Khaleesi-“ Irri began to protest.

“ _Now_ ”, she demanded, and this time none raised an argument. All of her handmaids rushed out of the room, and Doreah shot her a worried glance before she closed the door behind her.

There was a pregnant silence. Dany never knew Viserys to keep his peace, not without a threat hanging above him. And yet here he was, holding his tongue when just moments before he had demanded an audience. Then Viserys shook his head. “Do you think me blind and dumb, sister?”

 _He could not know. No one knows._ “Speak clearly, brother. I am only a simple girl.”

“Oh, your tongue has grown an edge. That’s good. Will help you fend off all of the Dothraki. Do you think I would not notice? The way your fingers would touch his, the allure in your eyes when he was in your sight? He is the seed of the Usurper’s dog, you stupid bitch!”

“Hold your tongue, brother,” she snapped. “Or I’ll get some hot pincers to do it for you.”

“I thought better of you. I kept on assuring myself ‘No, no, no. My sister would not lay with him. She is the dragon’s sister. She is above him.’ But then I followed you to the lake.” _No, we were careful._ “And I saw you disrobe in front of him, as if he had _any_ right to you. And I watched you fuck him, like you were a common whore. He is the whelp of the Usurper’s dog, Daenerys!”

Viserys clutched his fists at his side. He took in a deep breath, and she knew that sound. It was the inhale he would take before he would awaken the dragon. She remembered what it was like to be a little girl again. “Do you know what will happen when Drogo finds out? Everyone has heard the stories of what the Dothraki do to traitors and cowards. You have killed us both.”

“You don’t know of what you speak. You don’t know what you saw.” The lie sounded false even to her.

“Perhaps I should go to Drogo right now and lay down everything. Cut out your bloody foal and present it at his feet. He may give me an army yet.”

“No. No, Viserys you can’t do that.”

“Then this is what you must do. I will give you moon tea, and you will abort this fool union. Tell your horsefucker husband a sweet lie, something that makes sense for how you lost his child. You will say how eager you are to try again, to give him his prince. Smile, like you used to. Then send that bastard away.”

For a single moment, Dany thought it was over. For an instant, Viserys had won. He was in power again, with his lustful ambitions strangling around her heart.

Then she remembered who she was – the girl that was born amidst the rolls of a storm. The girl that survived the treahceries of the Usurper. She remembered Jon’s smiles, and the pride she felt at the life that grew within her.

“No,” she said.

Viserys looked at what. “What?”

“I said no.” She stepped towards Viserys. “I will not send him away. I will not kill the son that grows within me. I will _not_ obey you, Viserys.”

“Then I will tell Khal Drogo. You will die, Dany. Don’t be stupid.”

Dany shook her head. “I have never been more sure. Go to him Viserys, tell him of what you saw, of what you know. And when his horses pull us all apart, you will know the cost of your foolishness.”

“You have cast this threshold.” He pointed to his chest, and Dany could see his violet eyes throb. “Not I! You laid with him like a bitch, took in that traitor’s seed.”

“I crossed no line, brother. You were the one that refused to do the hard thing. Was it easy, when you twisted my pride? Did you enjoy it when I shook with fear before you? I wonder how you felt, when you knew I was truly lost to you. Was it the day when Jon stepped down those stairs? Every step he took hurt. He was filled with pain. I remember how his fingers shook. Jon has learned the hard lessons, and you lecture me?”

“You should have obeyed,” he protested. “I am your brother. Your king.”

“My brother, perhaps. But my king? I think not. None would ever follow you.”

“You lie.”

“No, brother,” said as softly as she could. “I am honest. You are Targaryen, and you were expected to love your sister. And you couldn’t even do that, for all your boasts and assurances.” She swayed a few strands of silver hair away from his face. “Once I met Jon, you knew it was over. In that moment, you found your better. I would never bow to you again. You should leave, before you say something you regret.”

She expected to throw some insults at her. Viserys should have screamed. But then she saw how soft his eyes looked. And then he turned from her, and walked from her with soft steps. When she looked down, she saw that her hand was clenched into a fist so tight that she drew blood. _I must wash this, before people suspect. Questions cannot be asked._ She cleansed her hand in the washer bin – it was not a deep cut. It would heal by the morrow.

She sat in a chair, and her fingers felt the grooves of the red oak. _My brother has crossed a threshold._ She remembered when her brother would tell her tales of the Targaryen dynasty. It was through him that she knew of her glorious brother Rhaegar, her gracious mother and their royal father. If Viserys did not secure Illyrio Mopatis’ patronage she would not have known Jon.

If not for Viserys, she would be dead.

If for Viserys, her son would not have a single breath.

She felt her hand reach for her swelling belly. “Can I kill for you?” she asked to the child. Viserys was cowered for the time, but that would pass and his arrogance would return. He would not forget his slight. _Will he go after Jon?_ They were surrounded by too many enemies. Dany wished there was another she could trust.

But she and Jon were alone, to stand against the world.

Dany did not stir from her seat for a time. But then her eyes were drawn to the ash chest that held her eggs. She found herself drawn to the chest, her fingers unwinding the hooks. As the chest groaned open, she looked down at the eggs. They sparkled and glowed under the midday glow. They always seemed to reach to the light, to fire, to heat of any kind.

Dany turned towards a brazier, the flames racing across the dark coals. _I would be such a fool to mar them. But I wonder…_ She drew the biggest of the eggs into her hands, the black one with the crimson swirls. She approached the brazier, and she felt the hairs on her arms erect straight. She just as much laid the egg into the brazier as she did drop it.

Dany took a step back. She watched as the flames licked at the egg. It did not mar. It did not crack. It did not break. When the coals cooled, and the fires died, the egg remained.

 

**THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL**

 

In his dreams, he was filled with determination.

He was alone, as he always was. He was not with his family, not with his brothers and sisters. They were far away, in a world of pale trees and men in iron suits. They had traversed the world of salt and sea upon the wooden ship, and came to a strange world. He was alone, as he always was. Always silent.

The horses always looked at him in fear, the wild maddening look in their eyes in his presence. There was a hot smell in the air, from a hundred upon a hundred fires being tended to. He could smell the lush scent of fire licked meat. He could not take the meat, not the ones claimed by the riders. They had their manclaws on them at all times, and those were dangerous.

He would go into the tall grasses, where the world was silent and true. Where it was just him and the prey, for him to devour as he would. He would be far from the stonedens and the barking of weak dogs. In the sky he could see a serpent of flame, but in the full day it was a weak and uninspiring thing. He showed his teeth to the red snake.

It was not long for his belly to filled with blood and meat. There was a hare, that was not quick enough, not smart enough, not strong enough, none of those things by far. In silence he pounced on the hare and cracked its neck. And then he filled himself with his gory victory. The tall men felt the need to alter their meals, to not take them pure, but there nothing so good as the raw rush of blood in your mouth rushing into your belly.

More, he wanted more. One hare was a small taste of what he wanted. But something pulled to him, back to the mandens in their city of dirt and stone. He brushed against the tall grasses, and allowed the blood to be wiped off from his fur. He left a crimson message behind as he left the perfect world, for the one made by men.

There was a cave of wood and iron, with giant horses strewn across it. It was a place he knew well, and the men in iron hides allowed him to pass. They all allowed him to pass – the weak men and the men with the manclaws. _They all know my face_ thought the man and the wolf together. He made his way to a familiar place, to one harbored by someone important and lovely.

In the silence of the halls of wood and stone, the words were heard. The threats that were made. The demands presented. In the silence, Ghost bared his teeth.

And Jon awoke from his bed. He was covered in a filthy sweat, and his breathing was heavy. He had a red hot hunger on his tongue, something that rushed from his stomach. He turned over and saw a small bowl full of spiced jerkins, some of which were nibbled at. He grabbed the bowl and ripped into it, his teeth sawing through the meat. His fingers would stuff his mouth with the meat as quickly as he swallowed.

When he was done, his lips were coated in soft pink blood, and his fingers were covered in meat. One by one he sucked, and as he savored the last bits of his meal, he thought on what he dreamed.

 _No, not a dream. Too real to be a dream._ The fire in him burned too much for that to just be a dream. _Viserys knows. He threatened Daenerys._

_He threatened my son._

There was a basin of water near him, laying atop a cabinet that was so fine that it seemed to glow in the midsummer day. Jon submerged his face in it, allowed the damp waters to cool him. His chin and ears were dripping, and a shiver wormed it way down his back.

_Viserys threatened my son._

Somehow, he was dressed and on the dirt roads of Vaes Sash. Ghost was at his side. He knew what he heard, he knew what he ate, he knew what happened. Viserys discovered them, and he threatened Daenerys. All Jon could think of was blood. Blood of her, blood of their son, blood for him.

_Let them call me a murderer. I will be the shadow of Winterfell. I can be bastard in name and truth._

Night slowly seeped into the sky, a dark palette against his own thoughts. It was good for Jon that No-Eyes did not come for him, nor did Khal Drogo summon him. He would need some way to deny them, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to do that. And if Daenerys sent for him, Jon was not certain he could lie to her.

_Could I lie to her, to protect her? Father, have you ever done the same? Did you lie to my mother for my sake?_

If Daenerys pressed, the truth would come out. She was too keen to not see the anger that he was clinging to. And what would she say then – that Viserys could not be touched? _No. He threatened our son. My boy would be dead if Viserys had his ways._ Viserys had to die. He must die. Daenerys would have seen that.

_Daenerys cannot be tainted. But I can. I already am. The black blood of a bastard is already in me. Daenerys doesn’t need to become kinslayer._

Daenerys can be pure. She will be the mother, the leader, the one who stands in the light. Let it be Jon Snow that is the bastard, the father that shoulders the hard decisions, the one that works from the shadows, who looks on from the darkness.

“Ghost,” Jon said as he crept down to the wolf. “Find him. Find Viserys.” Ghost looked at him with his red eyes. And in silence he was off, sprinting through the shocked crowd. There was a crooked tree with withered leaves. Beneath that twisted canopy, Jon waited.

And waited until he felt Ghost. Jon saw him emerge from the shadows, his white fur bright in the night. “To me,” Jon commanded, and the white wolf obeyed. Jon’s scarred fingers felt his fur. “You found him.” Ghost only stared. “Bring me to him. Show me Viserys.”

Ghost padded away and Jon followed. They made their way through the shadow laded streets. The path before them was lit by the humble fires of braziers dug into the earth. Jon could hear the fires lick at the air as they passed.

As Jon walked, he promised himself he would not look away. _He would be the uncle of my children. His Daenerys’ brother. By her words, he kept her safe._ He wondered if Father had ever felt so compelled to kill a man before. He had seen his father deliver justice before. Men who have murdered, deserters of the Night’s Watch, brigands, rapists and thieves. Father had never turned from them, but he had never wanted to end their lives. It was his duty, as the Lord in Winterfell, to bring the King’s justice.

But had he ever wanted to kill a man, so hotly, that his heart raced like Jon’s did? _Aerys. Rhaegar._ If a king ever killed Robb, he would want to taste hot blood. If any man stole Arya or Sansa, no gods could have stopped him from saving them. Father must have felt what thundered in Jon right now.

The hunger for blood.

Jon was not long in finding Viserys. Ghost lead him straight to the Targaryen prince, staggering through the muddy streets. Jon could see mud was splattered all over his trousers, and more than a share of dirt had crept beneath his nails. “Viserys,” Jon called out to him. His throat felt raw and cold in the heat. “Viserys.”

The beggar prince turned to him, and there was a paleness in his lilac eyes. The man squinted as he focused, and he tried to murmur a word. Or maybe he called Jon a bastard under his breath. Jon felt his scarred fingers brush against his sword. _Not here_. “Come with me,” Jon said as he dragged Viserys up to him. Viserys’ breath reeked of drink. He thought of how often King Robert would drink and eat in Father’s halls.

“Bastard…” he said softly, almost a whisper, hazed with drink. “Bastard. I know.”

“As do I.” Jon turned and dragged Viserys with him, and they went down. The road sloped and fell into the tunnel. Jon could smell the retches of the city. The sewer water put out water up to his ankles. His boots would reek of this, no doubt. It made no matter – Khal Drogo had gifted him with a wardrobe. One pair of boots would not be missed.

Jon pushed Viserys away from him, into the filth waters. “Move,” he demanded. Viserys looked at him. _Have your senses returned?_ “Move.” Viserys’ jaw trembled, and shakily he leaned on the curved walls of the sewers. His boots splashed across the waters. The light of the moon was behind Jon, and in tunnel was only darkness.

“What do you want?” Viserys’ fingers scrapped against the masonry. In the distance Jon could hear the tumbling of distance waters. “Bastard, answer me.” Jon felt his scarred hand twitch. He drew out his sword, and at the singing of steel Viserys coiled away. He lost his footing and fell into the dark waters. Jon approached. “She sent you, didn’t she? Daenerys could not do it. Not even in her condition, she was too soft. She sent the wolf to kill the dragon!”

“Yes,” he lied. _Let him think what he wants._ “Daenerys came to me and begged for it to be quick.” Jon bent his knees and looked at Viserys. “He was the brother that kept me safe, is what she said to me.”

His lilac eyes were a hot fury. “I gave up everything for her. Our mother died for her. She died screaming! I sold our mother’s crown for her. You tell her that.”

Jon brought his sword up to Viserys’ chest, and allowed the point to twirl. “I will say no such thing. The brother who did those things for her are dead. I find it hard to stomach that you were kind to her once. Did you let her sneak into bed with you, as you kept her arm close? Did you promise safety and protection? Such words were poison from you.” He went close to Viserys, close enough that he could smell the foulness in his breath. “But not from me. I mean I every word I say to her. That I love her. That I would protect her. She wants to put a crown on my head, but I don’t want that. I want to see my son live to hold his own boy in his arms. I want Dany to feel safe, for the first time in all her life.”

He dug the sword into Viserys’ chest. “And if I have to kill you to do it, I will. I am everything you are not, Viserys.” He twisted the sword.

 

**THE WOLFGUARD**

 

The Titan loomed over all else in Braavos. Jory did not think he could escape it so long as he stayed within the city. When they had sailed into the harbor, Jory at first thought it a monster come to life. But then he saw that colossus of stone, and he was filled with just as much spectacle as fear. _Is this the same feeling as those that see the Wall for the first time?_ No matter which river they crossed or what island they stood on, the Titan was always in the distance.

It took them weeks to cross the Narrow Sea, and it was all just to reach Braavos. Jory would have wanted somewhere closer to where Jon could be. Lord Stark had sent him to Pentos, Jory was half certain. But the _Salt Wharf_ was the only ship leaving that night, and it was setting sail for Braavos. Jory had to swallow the bad taste in his mouth, paid the Tyroshi his two golden stags, and boarded the ship with Harwin and Alyn.

All those weeks that had passed, and Jory found himself surrounded by rumors. The Dothraki will march on the Free Cities. There was an Andal who was part wolf. They say there was an Andal boy that has slept with the horselords. Some say that Khal Drogo have consumed the flesh of the Dosh Khaleen. Others say that the Andal boy had sent his wolf to kill the old women. Khal Drogo married the most beautiful woman in the world, while on other days Jory heard that Daenerys had tits that dragged down below her knees and she was covered in indecent tattoos. Daenerys Targaryen fed on the flesh of the fallen and granted what remained to her brother.

A thousand rumors, all of them stupid, and the only source of information Jory had. Braavos was supposed to be one of the great port cities in the world. Perhaps the greatest, depending on whom you asked (and almost all of them would be Braavosi). But the quality of the city’s information was not nearly as high as its ships. Jory was with left with no more than what Lord Stark had given him – that Khal Drogo has united the Dothraki, Jon was with him, and that the Khal had married Daenerys Targaryen. The one fact that seemed to be missing from all the rumors was that Jon was the father of the child in Daenerys’ womb, which Jory took for a blessing. That meant he still had time to rescue them both, before the Khal discovered the truth.

He was fighting an hourglass, and they had languished in Braavos for almost a week. It started before they even reached port, when the custom ships inspected the _Salt Wharf_. For what Jory could not say, and the spindly man in his thick robe allowed them passage after wasting a day. That was just the start of how slow and cumbersome the Braavosi were. They even counted coins at a languished pace, feeling the texture of every coper and silver before the mongers would accept them.

The debates between the three of them were frequent, and without result. Alyn insisted that they should just find a caravan heading east, but Harwin shot the idea down, revealing how he heard that the Dothraki Sea had claimed a quarter of the continent, and that Khal Drogo could be anywhere within it. Alyn mumbled on how an army of forty thousand shouldn’t be that hard to track, and Jory couldn’t find too much fault with that. He admired Harwin’s patience. The man had taught all of the Stark children how to ride, even guiding them on ponies. The idea that one of them could be in any harm surely had to put a fire in the man’s soul.

And yet, Harwin was adamant that patience was the better policy here. “We’re in a land stranger than the South. Let’s try to get an idea of how deep the pool is before we jump in head first.” Jory wished he could say the same. Everything about Braavos was wrong. The way everything took longer than needed, the fact that it was all just a bunch of islands strung together by bridges, and the heat. Jory thought that King’s Landing had prepared him for hot days, but that was nothing compared to what Braavos had to offer. Every day he was slicked in sweet, his brown hair was tangled into greasy knots, and he itched all over.

The Bravos’ Friend was filled with the smell of fish. Waiters ferried forth plates filled with crab meat and sliced up salmon. The fish were not as cold as Jory was used to, but they had a fresher and saltier taste. Most of the fish served in Winterfell were shipped in barrels filled with ice, but the ones in Braavos were surely netted only the day before.

Jory stared down at the map, the leather pinned onto the worn table by plaster mugs. Names like “Qohor” and “Norvos” and “Myr” were separated by the names of highways and roads. And of course the “Dothraki Sea” was scrawled across half of the map, that memorial to the conquests of the past Dothraki warlords. They razed so many cities to the ground that the only thing that grew in that green wasteland was grass and weeds.

Alyn planted his finger on Bravos. “I spoke with a Tyroshi fishmonger. Said his ship was in port for a season.”

“Is that relevant?”

Alyn shot Harwin a glare. “Fuck you and your relevance. Says we need to avoid the Disputed Lands.” Alyn tapped at “Tyrosh”, “Lys” and “Myr”. “Those three are angling for another fight again, he said. He sailed for Braavos to avoid the war, hope his fish can last him until he can sail home.”

Jory frowned. “Well, good fortune we’re not going south anytime soon. If anything we are going east.”

“Unless,” Alyn began, “if what the Tyroshi said was true, and that Myr conscripted the Golden Company. What if one of the other cities think of throwing jewels and baubles at this Khal Drogo?”

“So what,” Jory planted a finger on “Vaes Sash”. “This Drogo may march west?”

“Maybe,” Alyn said. “Or maybe he is just going to stick his ass in the Dothraki Sea for all we know. But everyone worries that he wants to rule a kingdom. Attacking those three cities while they are fighting between themselves seem as good of a way to start as any.”

Harwin shook his head. “Howabouts and maybes and perhaps and what ifs. That’s all we have. We don’t even know if Jon is still alive. All we know is that there is an Andal in Khal Drogo’s court. Could be that craven Mormont for all we know.”

“Jon is alive,” Jory said through his teeth. _I promised Lord Eddard that I would bring Jon back alive. I cannot have failed him before we even began._

“This is all wrong,” Alyn sighed. “Our fathers rode to fight against the Targaryens. Now we’re fighting to save the Mad King’s daughter and her child.”

“We’re fighting to save Jon and _his_ child,” Harwin said. He glared at Alyn. “And I never knew the bastard to be a poor judge of character. He had more sense to him than that Greyjoy. If he loved the girl enough to bed her, then so be it. We’ll save her too.”

“But this is treason,” Alyn doubted. “The King is sending assassins after them both. I thought Robert was Lord Stark’s friend.”

Jory couldn’t fault Alyn. His father rode to war with Lord Eddard to avenge Lord Rodrik Stark and Brandon. He never returned. He had died in Dorne, for reasons Jory had never understood. Now only a generation later, and Lord Stark had sent him halfway across the world to save a Targaryen. It was all madness. But he knew Jon. He was a good man, a true Stark if he would have been born of Lady Catelyn. Jory knew he would never betray the Starks, his father, or anyone from Winterfell. He was worth saving; he and this Targaryen girl.

“That was before,” Jory said. “Before he decided to kill an innocent girl and the babe at her breast and the son of the Lord we swore to serve. The King threw the glove into the gauntlet. Lord Stark is just doing what he can.”

Alyn peered over the map. “We could heed for Norvos. I remember hearing that one of the Dornish princes married someone from there. Probably a safe place for us Westerosi savages.” Alyn grinned at his own jest. “And it’s right on the Dothraki Sea. Just a small hop from reaching Vaes Sash and saving Jon’s pretty ass.”

Harwin nodded. “Would be good to rest for a day or two. Might be an even better place to get some information we can rely on. With Norvos being so close to the Dothraki Sea, whatever rumors we find there may hold actual weight.”

“So,” Jory looked to Harwin, “to Norvos then?”

“To Norvos.”

“In the morning,” Alyn tapped at the table, “I can go onto the Long Canal and ask around about any merchant vans that could use a few sellswords.”

“We are no hired blades,” Harwin growled.

“But they don’t need to know that. Maybe all this fish stench has addled my mind, but we don’t know who have eyes or ears on us. We are conspiring against the King, after all.”

“Alyn is right,” Jory said. “A little dishonesty is better than a dagger in our backs.”

His dreams had other ideas. He rolled in his narrow bed, and he always saw the faces in the shadows. He saw his father, grim faced and smoking, linger over him. “Why would you save a dragon? I died because of them. Lord Rickard was killed because of them.”

“You died in war,” Jory protested. He is a young man again as he watches his father ride to war. He is a young man when Lord Eddard returns without his father. “You are not here. Lord Eddard is alive.” _I can trust only you_ , the air speaks in his ear. _Save my son_. “What of my duties to him?”

 _Save my son._ A boy with wisps of dark hair and gray, steel eyes. Innocent laughs in the courtyard. A man, with a solemn and guarded face. He sought out his place in the world. The son of his Lord. The duty of his charge. _Save my son._

Save the dragon. The daughter of the man that brought tragedy to the Starks. “I died because of them.” Father’s face was red and bleeding, his eyes turned into flaming streaks that raced down his cheek. “And you would save them?”

“No, just the one.”

The rain was tapping hard against the city streets when Alyn set out the next morning. “I’ll be back by the midday sun Jory, I promise.” _How can you give us that promise, when you can’t even make out the sun?_ A fog, gray and deep, had crested over the city during the night. When Jory peered through the window, he could not make out the next house down the block. Haewyn insisted that Alyn keep a firm hand on his knife. Alyn promised that he would.

They lingered in their room, either not sure what to do. Harwin sat against the wall with his hands crossed, his brows furrowed as he stared into the wall. Jory was half certain that he could have gazed a hole into the wall. “Alyn will be well,” he assured. “He knows his sword and knife. And a Northman besides,” he said with a smile.

Harwin wasn’t so convinced. “A Northman, in a strange world. Who builds a city on a bog?”

“The Reeds of the Crannog for one,” Jory said. “And these Braavosi for a second. Alyn has a trusting voice. He’ll come back, say we got hired by some merchant, and we’ll be off for Norvos before you can blink.”

“Are you so certain?”

“Of course I am,” he lied. A thousand things could happen. Alyn could very well die. The thought raked at him. _I may have sent Alyn into a nest of vipers_. But the man had insisted that he go, and Jory couldn’t deny him. Any one of them would have stood out with their thick Westerosi accents. Good thing that most of Essos spoke the common tongue, or else they would all be truly lost. Alyn was the one that tended to lean towards the canals and the wine dens of the city in his search for answers, so maybe he was the best man for the job.

Jory hated waiting. He hated being indecisive. Give him a sword and a man to stick it in. _That_ was a task he could grip his hands around. But all of this questioning and asking, and receiving only half-truths shrouded in fog and mystery – none of it sat right with Jory. Or with Harwin and Alyn for that matter. But Lord Stark gave him a task. He trusted Jory to see it through, and by the Gods Jory would do it.

He’ll bring Jon and his Targaryen home. Lord Stark will hold his grandchild in his arms. Jory had promised as such. And if he needed to slither from one Essosi city to the next like some drunk mummer to do it, well, Jory could stomach the bitter taste.

Jory was awoken by the thunder of steps. He was on his feet with sword in hand, and Harwin had a steel hilted dagger out, when Alyn rushed in. He looked at them queerly. “What’s with you two?”

“Others take you,” Jory swore as he sheathed his sword. “Learn the definition of discretion next time Alyn.”

“Well, no need for that. I got what we were looking for.”

Harwin sucked on his lips. “You got that mercenary contract?”

Before Alyn could answer, a Braavosi stepped into the room. He wore a dark green robe of velvet, and the sigil of the Sea Lord was stitched over his heart. The man had his hair cut short and slicked back. “I am Meero Syrese, seneschal to the heir to the mantle of Sealord of Braavos. And Tormo Fregar would speak with you?”

“Is there a choice?” Harwin asked.

“Not if you would save the Targaryens,” answered Meero Syrese.

 

**THE BROTHER THAT WAS CHOSEN**

 

Hezzare looked over the cyvasse board. The white elephants were pressing on the black spears, and Drogon had placed his black dragon at the front. A bold move – the dragon was the most powerful piece, and the most susceptible to attack. It reminded him of Jon Snow’s plan, to bait Orolo’s Khalasar using Drogo. But cyvasse was not the battlefield, but a mere illusion of it. He didn’t need to worry about temptations or cowardice on the field.

He moved his white spears alongside his elephants. Drogo looked over his pieces and pressed his catapults behind his dragon. Hezzare seized the opportunity and pressed his elephants against the dragon. “I have taken you. Your dragon will wipe out my elephants, but my spears will take your dragon. And with the dragon dead, your catapults are lost. And with that-“

“You have the head of my king,” Drogo growled. “I have never lost a battle, and yet you seem unstoppable at this fool game.”

Hezzare sipped at the wine. It was a royal white, so it had a sweet and succulent flavor. “Victories in battle are preferable to winning a game, no?”

The bells chimed as Drogo chuckled. “Battles give me wealth, but I’ll swell with pride when I manage to beat you, brother.” Drogo felt the black dragon between his fingers. “Another?”

“If my khal demands.”

Drogo understood the ebbs and flows of battle, but cyvasse was a different thing. Drogo had told him once how a battlefield was alive and breathing, with a passion you could tap into and understand. You could sense where the battle is flowing, he insisted. But cyvasse was still and sterile, it was all patience and cunning, with no sense for bloodlust.

Drogo was a patient man, and his better games were the ones where he didn’t rush things through. He would think them out, gaze over the board like it was a map, consider his pieces three and four times over. But as patient as Drogo was, Hezzare was five times over, and he would trump the Khal in the end. No matter how long it would take.

Drogo tapped his black elephant against the table. His face was a mask, as it always was. Hezzare always found it hard to read the man. Hard, but not impossible. After a lifetime together, Hezzare had understood the small things that gave the man away. A smallest incline on his lips may as well have been a grin. “You are about to ask me about my wife,” Drogo said. He planted the elephant forward. A foolish gamble.

“It is a topic worth discussing.” The elephant would be taken by the spears, which would prompt the trebuchets forward from the back. “Two weeks since her brother was murdered. How is she?”

“Well,” Drogo said. “She is not the weeping maid that I married. She mourns for him, but not in these bouts of tears. And my son grows.” There was warmth in his voice, a dull fire in his black eyes.

“And yet the man with the sword has not been punished.”

“Or honored,” Drogo growled. “Viserys was a fool and a weakling, and it irked me to give him as much as I did. Whomever did it know what they were doing. Or was very lucky. The hounds had no scent to follow because of the rain, and the sewers had eaten away at the corpse. Who knows how long he has been dead now?”

“For as long as he was missing, surely.” It took three spears, but Drogo’s last elephant was taken. “But they avoided each other. Daenerys had tired of her brother’s abuses, and Viserys was shamed that she took her rightful place above him. From her telling of it, a week could pass in peace before she had to tolerate him.”

“Well, he is a dead man that won’t be missed. Your move.”

Drogo pressed his trebuchet forward. “His shadow still lingers over her. I can smell his foul stench whenever she smiles. Trying to hide her grief behind trying to be the dutiful wife. And she lingers more with Jon Snow.”

“They are both of Rhaesh Andahli. Is that not so strange?”

Drogo shook his head. “No. And I know them not fools enough to try. Every morning Doreah leaves Jon’s tent. Won’t be too long before her belly swells with his son. Still, my men talk. You tell me that it is not unusual for an Andal warrior to be so close to a woman. But the riders of my Horde are ignorant of such things.”

“Men _always_ talk.” Hezzare moved his horses forward to support his dragon. “The more bored they are, the more they talk. There have been complaints that they now need to pay for their women.”

“Coin needs to circulate.”

“And I am grateful. Being your treasurer is one of my many _honored_ duties. But the men talk of something else, and I would see rumors put to the grave. What is this I hear of Astapor?”

“A city of slaves and brimstone,” Drogo answered. “One of the last sons of Ghis. I remember how the Valyrians triumphed over that empire.”

“You should also remember how that ended. In fire and smog.”

“And I remember how it began. With glory, triumph and treasure. The Astapori have the Unsullied. If Astapor should fall, all of Slaver’s Bay will follow in turn.”

“Or it could mean your destruction right there.”

“Or my triumph. You forget Hezzare, dynasties are not forged on weakness.”

 _Neither are they built on impatience. This is why you will never best me at cyvasse_. Hezzare lifted his dragon forward. “Another game, another king for my collection. I pray you are better at sieges than you are a player of cyvasse.”

Drogo flicked his horse across the board. He rose up from his seat, his irritation painted across his face. “A game is not war, and cyvasse is not Astapor.”

“No,” Hezzare turned in his seat, “but they are not so dissimilar. Your Golden Horde is used to the screamers of the Khals. The steel wall of the Unsullied is something else entire. The Qohoriks and their bought Unsullied will be a boon, but-“

“I cannot rely on the Qohoriks,” Drogo sighed. “I had already brought fire on their steps with Orolo. And they are not truly mine. Oaths of fealty and gifts in gold are not the same as vows of loyalty.”

“So we will be without Qohor.” Hezzare tapped on the spine of his chair. “How will you build your siege weapons then? The grass sea has no trees or forests for miles except for those that surrounded Vaes Dothrak. And the burning of the Old Capitol was slight enough on the religious. Cutting down the sacred woods will bring a civil war.”

“There are woods that surround Astapor,” Drogo said plainly. He was ignoring the truth.

“And the Golden Horde will need to move quickly before the Astapori set them to flame.” In truth, that was the prime strength of the Dothraki. Even united under Drogo, with no other Khal to stand opposing to him, they were prime for fractures. It would only take one strong moment of defiance to see a Khal rise up and take thousands with him. But none could ride as the Dothraki could, and that mobility served Drogo well in his conquests. If he could ride fast enough upon Astapor before they could offer their forests to the flames, then the Good Masters would have reason to tremble.

Hezzare rose up from his seat. “I should see to Mother.”

Drogo turned to him. “I heard it was a disturbance in the stomach.”

“I heard the same, and I have seen her from day to day. I have been tending to her, as you know.”

“Of course I heard,” he snorted. He waved Hezzare away. “Off with you, before my Khalmai starts flapping her tongue.”

An hour would pass before he found Veranii in her bed. A multitude of bald slaves with branded collars were attending to her. Some fanned her with fans of peacock feathers, other were keeping her cool with damp rags applied to her forehead. “Out with you,” he demanded. “She is my honored mother, and I would see to her myself.” They scampered away like wet dogs.

“About time,” the Khalmai moaned. “The way they attend to me, they must surely be waiting for me to depart for the nightlands. Well, I survived my husband, and all his brothers, and my father and all of his sons. I’ll survive them.”

“They are simply doing their duty, Mother.” Hezzare drew a vase filled with water. “Drogo only wishes to see you well.”

“And for good reason. The boy would be lost without my counsel. He rules the empire but I am the one with the wit.” Hezzare drew from his sleeve a small leather pouch, filled with the last of the medicine. The silvery powder dissolved into the water. “Where is my medicine?” she coughed. “The sooner I am rid of this ailment-“

“The better we will all be,” Hezzare assured. “This is the last of the medicine. After this we must simply allow things to sail their course.”

Veranii ripped the wooden cup from his hands and drank it, quickly and eagerly. “Were you playing that fool game with Drogo again?”

“Naturally,” Hezzare said. “Drogo is most insistent that he will win someday.”

“In a realm of fantasy,” Veranii murmured. “You have all of the patience for it. What were you talking about? It is never _just_ a game between you two.”

“Astapor.”

“Stallion give him reason,” she scoffed. “All of his ko will love it, up until when they have spears sticking out of their necks.” A terrible cough ripped through her lungs. She wheezed into her palm.

“Are you well Mother?” He turned towards the vase. “Let me fetch you some water. To clear the throat.”

“I will be fine,” she said to his back. “As you said, Hezzare. We must let things chart their-“ Her body collapsed onto the floor with a small thud. Hezzare turned with cup in hand.

“Let things sail their course? Yes, Mother. It is called the Aching Death, produced from the Qwinting Shrooms of Lorath. A slow and patient poison.” He bent down near here. “Only a few minutes more, Honored Mother. _Wise_ Mother. Those were the words I learned to call you. You and your husband, Khal Bharbo. Great Father. Honored Father. Titles upon titles, bestowed upon the son you bought and chose. All for Drogo. Bharbo saw me, he saw my wit and intelligence, and decided I would serve Drogo for life. So he bought me and brought instructors and slave teachers from the Free Cities to enlighten me. All for him. All for Drogo.

“Oh Mother, you’re shaking. Your hair is a mess. Let me help you. Yes, much better, much more comely now. ‘Why’ you must be asking. Why why why? You’ve known only respect from me, only loyalty from me, only love from me. Why would I do this to you? Because through all of my childhood, I gave them all to you, and I meant it all. It was all so sincere. But I insisted that I be allowed to go through the empire, to be a lowly tax judicator, for only a few years. So I can Khal Bharbo’s great empire from the streets. I remembered your protests, but Khal Bharbo agreed. And so, off I went.

“And it was there I met the most beautiful of whores. Oh, she would have been the envy of Drogo. He would have taken her so quickly if I had not encountered her first. Her hair was so thick and dark, like waves of the night sky. A beauty. And after, I heard her sing a song that only my mother knew. ‘A sparrow cannot be caged’, she sang. ‘A sparrow’s wings cannot be clipped.’

“But I _was_ caged. My wings _were_ clipped. How else could I have forgotten my sister? How else could I have forgotten my family? What could make a man forget himself like that? I pondered that over her corpse, after I unwrapped my hands around her throat. And in that moment I experienced utter clarity. The _Dothraki_ did this to me. They utterly _unmade_ me. To return the kindness, I would unmake Drogo in the same way.

“I was the cause of Bharbo’s fall. Slowly I poisoned him, stiffened his heart, until it finally gave him release in agony. I killed your Khal, just as I have killed you. You will prowl the Nightlands with him soon enough, I promise. But have no fear, I have not poisoned Drogo. I want him to see his dynasty fall apart.

“I advised him on killing the khalakka because I _knew_ it would fracture the people. Here was Drogo, confirming all of the suspicions of the horselords, and none of the promises he had made. He is no better than any of the khals. He is just as his ancestors were. Brutal, savage, and bloodthirsty. No amount of luxury would ever be able to change that.

“But Drogo will die. From his wife’s hands. I seduced the Lynesse slave. It was not hard – the powerless are drawn to the powerful, after all. And she told me how much Daenerys detested her husband. How she loathed him. So I suggested ways to deal with him. Slowly, and carefully, fed to him. An aching death awaits Drogo.

“Perhaps they will be discovered, and just imagine that would do to him. He will kill her, of course. The Khaleesi will know the full wrath of a Khal. I hear being pulled apart by horses is agony beyond compare. I wonder if he will have his son watch?

“But before he would die, I wanted assurance that Drogo saw everything fall apart. So there is Astapor. You know how much Drogo hates being told what to do, so I continue to prod for him to turn away. And he will continue to march forward, defying my good judgement, right into the spears of the Unsullied. Towards his destruction. He may live through the battle, he may not. But he will be defeated there, utterly, and completely. There is no hope for him there. It will be enough for a new khal to rise in his rank, and split his Golden Horde to splinters.

“Oh, Honored Mother. I am so sorry. You have passed.”


	7. Alliances of Convenience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An attempt on a life. Trust is made on shaky ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.chaosinferred.com/creative/asoiaf/dragons/7-alliances-of-convenience/

**VII**  
**ALLIANCES OF CONVENIENCE**

 

**THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE**

The Golden Horde grumbled of war. Khal Drogo wanted to move on Astapor. Everyone knew it. A Khalasar kept no secrets, but an empire was something else entirely. In the weeks that followed the Khalmai’s death, Drogo summoned his bloodriders to council with greater frequency. There would be days when Dany would not see him until he would come to bed, and sometimes he would not even mount her.

Dany could not say that she missed Virenni. The woman was never unkind to her, but she always talked of how the baby would change everything. “Once you give Drogo his son, you will come to love him.” Dany wanted to slap her for that lie. _I will never love that man_. But Dany supposed that death was a kindness. No mother should ever live to see her son perish.

Dany felt the swell in her belly. _You will live long, my son._ She could have sworn she felt a kick. Perhaps her son could hear her thoughts. Who’s to say that a babe can’t know their mother’s heart? Viserys always talked about the mother that she ever knew. How beautiful she was, how graceful. She always knew her duty, is what he said. Dany wondered if Viserys thought of her in the end.

 _You never got your throne. But Brother, I hope you have some peace._ He had beaten her, abused her and manipulated her. But he was her brother and he had protected her from the Usurper for so long. Viserys had always talked about the Usurper’s knives, the hired assassins that would end their lives. They had to take to the seas one day, or hide in the tunnels beneath Myr or Tyrosh the next. _And now you died in the sewers of Vaes Sash. Viserys, you were my brother. You handled me like no brother should, but your protected me. Because of you I was able to live, to be sheltered by Illyrio. I was able to meet Jon because of you. I hated you. I loved you._

Jhiqui had just finished applying the last bit of perfume when Jon entered. “My Lady,” he said, all respectfully and chivalrous. “We should go now, if we mean to beat the midday crowds.”

 _How long until you can name me “My Wife”? I consoled you to be patient, but every day that we play this visage is poison in my blood_. She wanted Jon to hold their son in his arms. She wanted to know what he would look like – would he have the dark hair of his father, or would the Valyrian blood be favored? She wanted to be far away from the Dothraki Sea. She wanted a villa in one of the Free Cities in Essos, where she could plan her return to Westeros in peace. She wanted to feel Jon on her lips. She wanted to scream that she loved a man, that his name is Jon Snow, that he is a bastard, and he is more worthy than all the lords and merchant kings in their gilded halls.

She wanted Khal Drogo to be dead.

“Of course, Jon.” And with a motion Irri helped Dany to her feet. She hated how awkward and clumsy she felt. She used to love the feeling of the grass between her toes, but now her feet ached every morning. Doreah would rub oils on them and rub, but that brought so little relief. But then Jon would look at her with the briefest of smiles, and Dany would think that it was worth it.

She was carried into the markets on a litter. If Drogo were here, she would need to be astride Silver, but the Khal had ridden out onto the Sea with his bloodriders. That allowed Dany to be cushioned by the soft pillows and for the red curtains to shield her from the sun. Drogo may believe that a Khaleesi must always show strength atop her horse, but to Dany a littler was just as well. And it allowed Doreah to work her fingers on Dany’s back.

The Western Market was filled with the goods of the caravan. Since the burning of Vaes Dothrak, there was no longer any dispute which was the true capital of the Dothraki. Over the month, merchant caravans from Pentos and other Free Cities had made the trek over the Sea to Vaes Sash. They brought with them Qohorvik armorers. She knew that Jhogo was especially insistent on grabbing a “straight arakh” from one of the Qohorviks, and was all but begging Jon to attend him.

“You know steel’s worth well enough, Jhogo,” Jon had answered as he rode Shadow.

“I know the arakh! Every Dothraki knows of the arakh! But that straight and slender blade of yours-“

“The longsword,” Jon said..

“Yes, yes, that,” Jhogo said in a rush. “After you put Orolo to grass, every rider wanted one for his own. But none of them could get a hold of one made by the Qohoriks!”

“I still don’t see why you have need of me.”

“Because who better to tell me which steel has worth and which is an insult? You said so yourself, a sword is a part of a man! Well, show me some of that!”

Jon sucked on his teeth. “I should be at the Khaleesi’s side. I am her sworn sword, Jhogo-“

Dany stuck her head out from the curtain. “Attend to Jhogo, Jon. You are not the only northern steel that I have at my disposal. And I have the rest of my khas behind me.”

“Daenerys-“

“I and the child will be fine, Jon of Winterfell. Go advise Jhogo on which blade to buy.”

“As My Lady commands,” Jon said with a nod of his head. His irritation was evident. _But it would be awkward if I refused Jhogo. If all they see is Jon and Daenerys, people would talk._ Jon followed after Jhogo as they rode ahead into the market.

Ser Jorah rode up along the litter. “The boy attends to you too much.”

Dany narrowed her eyes. “He attends to me as much as he needs to, Ser. Just as you do as your vows bid you.”

“And what vows were that, Khaleesi?”

 _The one he swears to me every day. The ones his eyes say when he looks on me._ “The oath he swore when he laid his sword at my feet. Or have you forgotten?”

The Northman shook his head. “I am not like to forget that. But you should tread carefully,” as he leaned in close. His words were in the Common Tongue. “The attention he puts on you is more than that of a sworn sword. More than a knight. It is equal to a bloodrider. Or to a husband. It could raise questions.”

“I am Khaleesi. Questions will always be raised. But trust me when I say, between the two of us, Jon is more careful by far.” Would that she could believe the words. How many times has his grey eyes turned hot when he saw what Drogo did to her? It took all she had to convince him in the worth of Doreah and her poisons. Perhaps it was the Northern way, to rely only on your own strength. But it was enough for Dany that in her blood was the legacy of kings, that Doreah was devoted to her, Jorah Mormont was loyal, and that she had Jon.

“If it is as you say, Khaleesi.” His tongue returned to the rough language of the Dothraki. With a hand he parted away the curtain. “I do not see the Lyseni.”

“Doreah is out in the Market,” Irri explained. “The Khaleesi had given her leave.” Jorah gave Dany a considered glance. _What are you think, Jorah of Bear Island? That I was behind my brother’s murder? I loved and hated him in equal measure, but I would never kill him. He protected me for twenty years, and yet I could not help him._ She had hoped that Viserys had ran off. It was a fool’s notion, a desperate prayer, but it was all she could offer her brother. Despite what he said, she did not want Viserys dead.

When the news came, she did weep. That was not a show for her handmaidens.

“I should give you leave as well, Ser. With the caravans surely came letters from the west.”

“Without a doubt, Khaleesi. But with Jon Snow no longer at your side-“

“Nonsense. I have my khas with me, and I am in the center of my husband’s domain. I am safe. Go see to the merchant captain. I would like to know if the Magister has sent word.” She had to keep a line open with Illyrio. She and Jon may very well need to flee back to Pentos. All options had to be considered. “And send word regarding my brother.”

“How much should be said?”

“As much there needs to be,” Dany said. “In this, I trust your restraint.”

Ser Jorah nodded. “I will see it done.” As he trotted off, Jhiqui pulled back on the curtains. As the shade cooled her, Dany leaned back on the feather pillows. Drogo wanted war, but the war he wanted was Astapor, and any war with Astapor would bring the Dothraki against the Unsullied. Ser Jorah had told her the story of the first and last time any khalasar had ridden against the Unsullied. The Three Thousand of Qohor stood against Khal Temno’s Khalasar of fifty thousand riders. The Three Thousand were reduced to six hundred, but they put to grass twelve thousand of Khal Temno’s riders, including the Khal himself and all of his sons.

_Would that I had three thousand Unsullied. I would not need Doreah’s poisons, I would not need bow to my husband. I would not even need Illyrio Mopatis’ favor. An army to protect my family. Perhaps even an army to secure my throne._

But she had no Unsullied. She had only a khas a few hundred strong, and they were all loyal to their Khal. When the poison finally gripped at Drogo’s life, she had no illusions what they would do. They would join with a new khal and leave her in the dust. Jhogo, Rakharo and Aggo could prove different. Perhaps. Maybe. _Dreams and hopes, and all are slipping through my fingers_.

Drogo desired Astapor, and Dany feared that the Dothraki’s fears of the Unsullied would bow before Drogo’s ambitions. When that happened, they would march south towards Slaver’s Bay. Dany was certain Drogo would have her march with him. And that would tear Doreah from the markets of Vaes Sash, the source of her poisons.

Her plans were slipping through her fingers. Doreah was out in the shadows of the market, securing another pouch of the venomous powder. But Dany knew that this bit of poison would not bring Drogo’s death. His death still demanded several months supply of the poison. And even if she did not have the threat of the war looming above her…

It was said that Virenni had passed in her sleep, that after seeing her son’s victories she had seen all that a mother needed in her life. Dany was not convinced. She had spoken with the Khalmai on occasion, and there was not a hint of weakness in her. Doreah had told her how the death would be slow, careful, and appear natural. Just as natural as the Khalmai’s.

Another knew of the poison, knew how to use it, and was setting to work. She had arranged for one of her khas to taste all of her food, but he showed no sign of weakness. Neither did she. She felt just as strong as the day before, as well as very afraid. Drogo was cruel, not stupid. He could very well connect the dots between the death of his mother and his failing health. He had to know he felt weaker in the months since Vaes Dothrak. Even just a nagging suspicion in the back of his mind could grow into a realization.

Irri pulled Dany out of her thoughts. “Khaleesi,” she said, sniffing in the air. “Sausages.”

“Then let’s have some,” Dany said. She needed a distraction, something to take her mind away from her fears. After she signaled to the carriers to let her down, they made their way. It wasn’t the same pig herder as the last time. That had been months ago, before her womb had quickened. It was not a surprise that the wrinkled woman was replaced by a big man with gold tipped mustaches. Even the sausages were different - they were more tender.

“My pigs died on the journey, Khaleesi,” the man explained, his head bowing with every word. She noticed the sweat trickling down his sun kissed head. “I had to make use of some second hand horsemeat. A thousand, thousand pardons Khaleesi. If I had known you would partake in my meat, I would have settled for only the most very best.”

“I would accept only the one pardon,” Dany said after Rakharo took a bite of the sausage. “You are a man of business.” Rakharo handed her the greasy meat. “I understand my disappointment is secondary to your income.” The man responded with even more hastily spoken words of thanks. Dany couldn’t say that she didn’t like the sight. All her life Viserys had told her that she was a princess, that she deserved to be queen. And here was a man praising her for being only reasonable.

She smiled. “Khaleesi,” Irri said. “It’s good to see you happy. You haven’t smiled since your brother’s death..” Sometimes when she woke up, she still imagined that she would see Viserys, somewhere off in the corner of her sight, his purple eyes staring and judging her. Someone had murdered her brother, and she had to know who. _It could have been my husband for all I know. Did he go to the Khal, say something he shouldn’t have? No, he wouldn’t be so foolish. If he did, I would know it. I would be dead._

She heard the rush of footsteps. “Khaleesi!” Jorah dismounted from his mount. “Where is Jon and Jhogo?” He was red faced and out of breath.

“They have not returned. Ser, what is it?”

“We need to leave. It is not safe for you here.”

Rakharo shook his head. “Nonsense, Andal. We are in the center of Vaes Sash. The Khaleesi is surrounded by her khas. None dare harm her.”

Dany wanted to say the same. But she saw the determination in Ser Jorah’s eyes. _I have trusted my life to him._ “Speak to me, Ser Jorah.”

She saw in his fists a crumpled letter. “Robert has sent his assassins. It is not safe for you outside the walls of your husband’s manse. This is not Vaes Dothrak, where blades are forbidden. Any man can hold steel. Hired knives, not poisoned wine will come for you. If we leave now-”

Then there was a scream in the distance. Merchants ducked behind their stalls and carts as men with blades parted through the crowds. “There she is!” one spoke as he drew out his curved sword. “The Khaleesi. The silver hair!”

Ser Jorah drew out his sword. It clanged in the air as it left the scabbard. “Daenerys! Behind me!”

The assassins approached. Daenerys could not move. Her legs were like stone, but then she felt a tumble in her belly, and her legs were flesh and bone again. She nearly tumbled in her steps as she raced Irri and Jhiqui. Aggo pulled out his bow, and in just a moment, he had nocked his arrow. He loosed it, but by an inch it flew past one of the assassins. Smooth as water another arrow was in his bowstrings.

She could see the steel reflect in the midday sun. People screamed around her. Irri said something, but Dany could not hear. _My son. They have come to kill my son._ The assassin wrapped in red thrusted as Ser Jorah, but his longsword was longer. He easily deflected it and the giant man pressed his advantage. She heard the volley of an arrow dart pass Rokharo’s head as he screamed, his curved arakh in hand as he lashed forward. The man with the dark hair and golden eyes backed out of the blade’s reach.

Dany heard the cries of a man. The assassin that was furthest away fell backwards, Aggo’s arrow easily embedded into his shoulder. “Khaleesi,” Jhiqui begged, “you must _stand_!” She had fallen, she realized. Fallen on her knees, as helpless as a girl of six or seven lost in the streets of the Free Cities. She didn’t even feel the dirt dig into her knees. “We need to bring you to the litter!”

She could not move. She could only watch as Ser Jorah beat his attacker back. His strength was immense, his hairy muscles rippling as he swung his longsword at the assassin, each swing a threat to remove limb from body. The assassin made a pitiful display to block the assault. Ser Jorah grabbed the man by the folds of his cloak and slammed his head into the assassin’s. The man staggered back, reeling from the blow. Ser Jorah brought a downward swing and the sword cut into soft flesh. A thick stream of blood poured from the man’s lips, and when Ser Jorah drew out the blade with a kick to the chest, he died.

Aggo released another arrow, and that had struck just as true as the last. It pierced an assassin in the back, giving Rakharo enough time to bring his arakh to the man’s belly. He screamed, and screamed all the louder as Rakharo ripped him through, pulling out a wave of blood and organs.

Dany felt herself being lifted. “Get her out of here!” someone yelled. She could not say from whom. She was almost as much in sobs as she was in hysterics as she was laid on the cushions and pillows in her litter. Dothraki rallied the slaves to lift the litter up, and she herself being carried away at a clumsy and hurried pace.

Dany felt a rancid and consuming taste in her mouth. It was fear. She had known for it all her life, as Viserys scurried her from one Free City to the next. Always afraid of when the Usurper would send another ashamed knight to end her life. She had lived in fear of when she would wake the dragon. But this was worse by leagues and leagues. Her son wrestled inside of her. _You are the blood of the dragon. You must not fear men._ But she could not believe her thoughts. Her heart beat like thunder, and she could not keep her hands from shaking.

She was carried through the palace and lifted into her chambers. She sat there for a long time. “Khaleesi,” Irri said. “Doreah has returned from the markets.”

Doreah. She had forgotten all about her. “Bring her to me,” she said softly. They did as she bade, and Doreah rushed to her. She knelt at the bedside, her eyes red and her cheeks streaked with tears. “I am well,” Dany assured, but the words felt weak on her lips.

Doreah nodded a few times. “I have the poisons,” she softly said. She pressed a leather pouch into Dany’s hand.

“Thank you,” Dany said.

“It still won’t be enough.”

“I know,” Dany breathed. She slid the pouch into her feathered dress. “Bring me my egg,” she said, without truly knowing why.

“Which one, Khaleesi?”

“Any of them.” Doreah rose up and opened up the ashen chest. She returned with the white and gold speckled egg and placed it in Dany’s arms. Doreah left and closed the wooden door behind her. Dany nurtured the egg near her, her hands delicately wrapped around the scaled shell. _We are the blood of the dragon. My brother has always told me as such, and it is true. No man will have you. Not my son. You are dragon and wolf, and the dragon fears nothing and the wolf has its pack._ She felt her son kick in her womb, and she felt him reach out, his small hands longing for the egg, two brothers of flesh and scale entwining.

It was then that Ser Jorah entered. His tunic was stained in sweat and dirt, and there was a gash on his arm. “Khaleesi,” he said as he strode towards her.

She did not look up to him. She was affixed on the glow of the egg. “It was the Usurper.”

Ser Jorah nodded. “I received the letter from Magister Illyrio. King Robert has offered a lordship to any that ends the life of you or your brother.”

Dany looked at him, and she could not help but laugh. “Baratheon owes someone a lordship then!” The tears came then, and she could not keep the bitterness from twisting inside of her. “My husband should double his efforts. Send my brother’s murderer to Westeros.”

“Jon was also mentioned. The Usurper knows.”

Dany felt something tighten in her throat. “He knows?”

Ser Jorah nodded. “It was only a matter of time. He did pledge himself to House Targaryen at your wedding. Word has spread.”

 _He does not know. Ser Jorah does not know. No one knows._ “The men he sent. Who were they?”

“They were weak,” Jorah Mormont dismissed, “whoever they were. Capable of killing babes in their beds, and maybe street filth of the Free Cities. Hardly capable of killing a queen.”

“Jon.” _I had forgotten about him and Jhogo._ “Where is Jon?”

“Safe,” Ser Jorah said. “Hurt, but safe. He was seen racing to the manse after you were lifted away.”

“Send word that his Khaleesi has summoned him. And Ser Jorah, you’ve been cut.”

Ser Jorah had a surprised look on his face. He looked at his arm – the brown sleeve was stained with a dull crimson. “I had not even noticed. I won’t lose my arm over this, Khaleesi. I’ll see to it.” Then he bowed his head and left. It was not long after that Jon arrived with a frantic pace. He was pale and short of breath, and Dany could see splatters of blood across his face. He quickly shut the door behind him.

“Daenerys,” he breathed. He rushed to her, and she entwined her fingers within his. _He’s afraid. The first time he was ever truly afraid._ Jon looked at her as if she was the most fragile thing in the world. He held her so tightly. _Do you think I will slip away if you let go?_

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m fine. My khas saved me. Ser Jorah saved me.”

“I should not have left you.”

She caressed the knuckles of his scarred hand. _He has done so much already, for our family. And he shall need to do more yet, gods help him._ “None could have foreseen this. That is the nature of assassins, to strike from the shadows. My brother…” She found it hard to speak then. Something was clawing up her throat. “My brother knew about the knives in the dark.”

“Dany,” Jon said, “men came from us in the crowd. Men with knives and arched blades. They must have followed us after you sent me away.”

“How many?” She remembered what Ser Jorah told her. _They were not strong enough to kill a queen. But what about the ones that attempted to steal Jon from me?_

Jon sighed. “More than enough to kill us if it weren’t for the others. Many ran, but some Dothraki drew out their arakhs. I don’t think they imagined that a Dothraki would raise their blades for a Westerosi.”

 _But why Jon? Why him?_ “Were there no survivors?”

He shook his head. “The man I tackled, he bit through his tongue. No doubt he knew the fate of criminals in Vaes Sash. As for Jhogo…well, he was overzealous.”

“Overzealous?”

“He cut through the man’s belly.” Jon sighed. “The other Dothraki didn’t care that we needed to hear from them. All they cared for was killing the men. We have no answers.”

“Yes we do,” she said. “Robert Baratheon knows that you swore yourself to me. He knows that I am with child.”

Jon stared at her. For a long time he said nothing. “Have I brought doom upon my family?” His iron eyes were wet. “Will my brothers and sisters die because of what I did?” _No, Jon. Your father will pay, but you have made your kin princes and princesses. When we return, House Stark will be almost as high as the dragons on the Iron Throne._

“Jon, if the King sent men to kill us, your father would know. He is Hand to the King.”

“No,” Jon said in denial. “My father would not do that. Daenerys, he would never let hired killers to do this.”

“So he would send men he trusted instead?”

Jon furrowed his brow. “That is not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant Jon. But…oh gods, Jon. My brother. It was those men, the one sent by the Usurper. They are the ones that killed Viserys.” Her hands began to tremble then, and it took all Jon had to keep her from shaking. “Jon,” she gasped, “the Usurper killed my brother. It finally happened. I should have known. I should have had Drogo watch him. Ser Jorah even.” Jon tried to soothe her – he said her name in soft tones, his fingers caressed her arm, but she wasn’t listening. “I’m a foolish girl, and because of me Viserys is dead. He protected me for twenty years and I could do nothing for him.”

“Dany,” Jon said in a sure voice, “that is not true. Listen to me – you are not to blame for Viserys. It’s like you said, he knew more than anyone the dangers that Robert’s assassins proved. It was up to him to take precautions, not you. He should have safeguarded his own life.”

“Jon, you knew what kind of man my brother was.”

“Then perhaps we are better rid of him.”

“Jon, he was my _brother_.”

“It is as I said before. A brother would not have treated you like he did.”

They heard the heavy steps of one of the palace guards. “Khaleesi,” he said in gruff respect. “The Khal has returned.”

“Now?” She raised to her feet. “He was not set to return before evening.”

“News has spread of the attack, Khaleesi,” the guard said in haste. “He has summoned you and the Andal. He has summoned his entire court.”

They were escorted through the halls into the throne room. Khal Drogo was looming in his seat, his dark eyes scanning the chamber. “Speak to me,” he growled. “There was a man who was not killed. What did he say?”

Ser Jorah approached. “Khal, across the Narrow Sea, Robert Baratheon has learned of your wife’s pregnancy. He fears for his throne. He has granted a lordship, a position of power, to any that ends her life.”

Khal Drogo balled fists at his knees. “And he sent weaklings to do this?”

“More will come,” Quaithe of the Shadows said. “Robert Baratheon will not rest until the last of the dragons are dead, ashes in the pages of history.”

“The man is across the Narrow Sea,” Hezzare responded. “Brother, it took months for news to reach him of the Khaleesi’s pregnancy. The first assault was pitiful. By the time the news of his failure reaches this king’s ears, we will be well prepared.”

“And what of poisons, brother? If blades will not find their mark, a poisoned glass could serve.”

Hezzare’s eyes narrowed. “Brother, that is why we have wine tasters.” _Please believe these words, Drogo. Please._

 “I am the Khal of Khals, and I must fear the shadows.” Dany could hear the frustration in his voice. The Khal’s mask was cracking. “But what can the shadows do in the midst of a fire? If the enemy would send assassins after my wife, I will bring her to where no harm can come to her. In the midst of an army. You all know of my desires.”

“We have spoken of this, blood of my blood,” answered Cohollo behind his broken teeth. “Astapor is the Unsullied. The Unsullied are our bane.”

“So were the dragons!” Drogo roared. “And now I am wed to the last of them. It was said that no Khal shall raise no city save for Vaes Dothrak. But my father did so. They said that no Khal shall rule all of the khalasars. But I have done so. Why do we need to bend to the will of Astapor? Why is one city full of so much fear for us? We are the children of the Red Moon. All will kneel to the Khal of Khals. And that includes those eunuchs and their masters. I will march on Astapor.”

The throne room filled in silence. _Our plan is doomed. Without the markets, Doreah cannot have her poisons. What can be done?_ She felt her son. _Khal Drogo must die. My son will live to see this world. We will find a way._

 “You would march south?” Quaithe stepped forward, much closer than any of the others. “South is death, Khal. South is away from the enemy. You should be sailing west, towards Westeros. Towards the man that threatened your wife.”

“He is a worlds away. And when word reaches him, my son will be waiting for him. And so will I, behind the walls of Astapor, and mounted on the corpses of that city’s masters.”

“You name yourself Khal of Khals,” she said. “But you are using your armies to hide from the truth. The conquest you should be seeking lies across the Narrow Sea. But you won’t take it. I name you coward, Khal Drogo.”

The mask shattered. Drogo grinded at his teeth, and his dark eyes burst into a black flame. “I named you counselor. I permitted your talks of shadows and mysteries. I suffered your presence. All because my father insisted on it. In his memory, I allowed you. No more. Get out. GET OUT! Leave my city! Leave my people! The next time I smell you, witch, I will have you burned.”

When Drogo took her that night, his strokes were forceful and ragged. “I will give our son a kingdom,” he swore as he came into her. “Not across the black sea. _Here_.” He slumbered soon after, but sleep did not come for Dany.

Instead, drawing out from the shadows, emerged Quaithe. Dany could see the lacquered mask twinkling in the darkness. “I come with warnings, Daenerys Stormborn.” Dany could not speak. “Beware.”

“Of who?” she whispered.

“Of _all_. Beware of the harpies, beware of the lion, beware of the griffon and his fat sponsor, and beware of all other dragons.”

“There are others?” Dany’s heart raced. Could she dare to hope? “Did my brother’s children survive? I heard the stories…”

“Beware of those that claim as such. They are mummers to all, themselves included. Beware of even the bear, and those that sail under the flag of liberation. You can trust none of them. Only the wolves are certain.” And the mask faded into the shadows, and Dany was alone.

 

**THE WOLFGUARD**

 

The Braavosi sky was a cascade of purple and orange, the comet ripping through it like a hot arrow in the darkness. It first appeared above the world when they were halfway across the Narrow Sea, and it lingered still. Jory wondered then if it was an omen of doom. The only thing fire brought was destruction and death. Any man caught in a burning forest would tell you that.

But then he thought of the dragons. _I have to bring one home, along with Jon_. The saying went that Aegon the Dragon brought fire and blood to Westeros, and he provided peace and prosperity in return. Maybe the comet wasn’t an omen of doom. But if that were the case, then what _was_ it for? The Targaryens coming again?

 _What will you do, My Lord, when we bring Jon and Daenerys back to Winterfell?_ No doubt Moat Cailin was being fortified. A few hundred men with bows could keep ten times their number away for weeks. But that said nothing about a strike from the sea – the North needed a navy. Lord Manderly would no doubt sweat with excitement at the prospect. And Jory was certain that Lady Sansa and Lady Arya were already on a boat destined for Winterfell.

But what about when he returned with Jon and the Targaryen girl? What about her brother Viserys? _My Lord would never support either of them mounting the Iron Throne. Not after what Aerys did to Lord Rickard._ King Robert made the first move – he was the one that wanted Jon Snow dead. All he did was lay with an exile who had nothing but her name.

Tormo Fregar’s pleasure barge was covered in faces, both laughing and weeping. He had heard on the streets that the man was a fan of the mummers’ plays, and that the only ones he ever saw value in were the comedies and the tragedies. The comet lit the dark purple sails into a brilliant indigo. The barge lingered casually on the dark waters, and Jory could see from their small ship that the docks were lined with watchmen and sellswords.

Jory felt his northern steel rub against him. He once told Arya that a single Northman was worth ten of any Southron. Could the same be said of the Braavosi? Maybe worth half as much. If he learned one thing from his time in Braavos, it is that you never question the worth of a bravo. The night belongs to the bravos and the courtesans, and Jory wanted neither in his sights.

The rowboat drew to the barge, and a rough rope ladder was thrown down. Alyn and Harwin went first, with Jory and Meero Syreese following behind them. As Jory climbed over the railings, he saw that the deck was carved out of a deep red wood. It was supposed to be a pleasure barge, but as Jory looked at he wondered just what type of pleasure this Tormo Fregar favored. By Jory’s ignorant eyes, the ship could withstand a siege.

Or maybe not. What did Jory know of ships? His feet felt wobbly on the shifting deck. He was a man of the North. Give him gray skies, grassy mounds with sugars of snow strewn across them, and a firm weapon in his hands. He felt like he was moving across quicksand across the deck.

Meero led them below. The air was filled with the scent of spices and hot meat, and the walls were adorned with paintings and portraits. Jory could still hear the moaning of the ship as it was rocked by the waters.

They were brought to a long room with an even longer table. Spread across it were lobster claws, chopped up salmon, smashed squash, bowls of butter with cream, clam chowder, and a honeyed bird of some variety. For weeks he had feasted off of salted meat and the cheapest cut of fish, and none of it were fresh. Jory had to swallow his drool.

At the end of the table was dressed a man in rich velvets, the bright purple dancing against the gold on his fingers and the jeweled necklace that dangled from his neck. His dark shined with the oil in his hair, and his beard was curled. His cheeks were blushed, and the perfume rolled off of him. “My sons of Westeros.” The words danced off of his tongue.

“Jory Cassel,” announced Meero Syresse. “And his companions and sworn men, Harwin and Alyn. All men of –“

“Of the North, and all of them sworn to Winterfell.” Tormo Fregar waved his hand dismissively. “Sit. Eat and drink. Then we can talk.” They did sit, but the eating came with reluctance. Servants came and dressed their plates with the exotic dishes, but fear gripped at them. They all looked at their plates with suspicion. “Give me the lobster,” the Braavosi commanded at one of his servants. Once the shattered claw was in his plate, he took a chunk of the pink meat in his hand and sucked it off of his fingers. He slowly chewed, and every munch was audible through the hall. Then he swallowed. “You are safe, Westerosi. I don’t have to swear myself to guest rights, but you are all safe under my roof. _Eat_.”

That was all the encouragement they needed. Jory ripped at the salty lobsters, Harwin forked and knifed his way through the honeyed bird, and Alyn spooned his mouth with the clam chowder, the white broth lingering on his red beard.

“I assume you have had enough fill to speak? Would not do for you to pass partway through words.”

Jory coughed. “The food is filling, My Lord-“

“There are no lords in Braavos, and no titles to go with them. Save for Sea Lord, and I’ve yet to have that honor pinned to my breast. I am Tormo Fregar.”

“Tomro Fregar,” Jory said, “why have you brought us here?”

“You Northman hold to your reputation. A boon, if there ever was one. You seek out the Targaryen princess.”

“And what is that to a Braavosi?”

“To me? Nothing. Let her wither and die on the Dothraki Sea for all it ails my heart. It is her husband that concerns me. The Dothraki have become united under the banner of a single khal. Every free man of Braavos dreads what he does next. I would see him dead before he moves west.”

“Towards Westeros?”

“Towards _Braavos_. I am a patriot, and as any son of Braavos I fight slavery in all its forms. And as appalling as the Dothraki’s contribution to slavery can be, this Khal Drogo’s threat to my city is worse threefold.”

“And how does Daenerys Targaryen fall into this?” asked Harwin.

“From what we have heard, she was _sold_ by her brother to the Khal,” Alyn said.

Tormo Fregar frowned. “Are you all trained frogs, that you would croak at me in turn?” Jory shared a nervous stare between his guardsmen. “Daenerys Targaryen matters because she is his wife, and the Dothraki favor honor and self-respect over decency and integrity. Steal his wife right from under him, and he is insulted. Whisk her away to Westeros and he is broken. This dynasty falls apart just as it had raised its foundation.”

“That changes nothing,” Jory stated. “We would rescue her regardless of how it affects your city.”

“It changes the manner. You would whisk her and this other Andal-“

“Jon Snow,” Harwin insisted.

“If it suits you. Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen to Winterfell. And what makes you think King Robb would follow a dead father’s decree?”

Alyn dropped his spoon, spilling a mouthful of clam chowder. Harwin held a breath. “No,” Jory said.

“Yes,” Tormo Fregar said in an iron tone. “Do you not know?” Silence. “Meero, tell them.”

“The details are sketchy,” the seneschal began. “Being a sea apart does not make information quick or reliable. But we do know that Eddard Stark is dead, his head taken at King Joffrey Baratheon’s demands.”

“King Joffrey? Robert is king.”

“Was King,” Tormo Fregar corrected. “Killed in some way. Some fools would say he exploded from overindulgence. Others say that Queen Cersei killed him with a rusted dagger, although why she has her head and Stark lost his contradicts that. Others say that your lord killed King Robert himself, which explains the executioner’s axe but little else. But your lord _is_ dead along with Robert Baratheon, and his son Robb is now your King in the North. That, along with death and taxes, are all I am certain of.”

“Robb is king,” Jory whispered. He remembered when he was just a boy, red of hair and cheek, swinging his stick sword in the yard. He and Jon Snow, laughing and challenging the other. Now one is king and the other is supposed to be a father. And both are in just as much danger as the other.

“Indeed. Tell me, does your King love this Snow I hear about? Jon Snow swore his sword to Daenerys Targaryen at her wedding, but his father fought to end the dragons.”

“He is the father of her child,” Harwin rasped.

Tormo Fregar gave Harwin a long look. “Then if you claim Jon Snow, you claim the Targaryen girl. And if I have the Targaryen, I have the key to disrupting the Dothraki threat. Unless Khal Drogo discovers the boy had horned him.”

“That won’t happen,” Jory gritted.

“If you insist.” The Braavosi did not sound convinced. “What do you Westerosi in Braavos know of Astapor?” Alyn shrugged, and Harwin had a lost expression on his face. “Nothing. Then I shall educate; it is a city in Slaver’s Bay. A deplorable place, but wealthy and powerful, and despised by every proud son of Braavos. It was of no consequence until a few days ago.”

“What changed?”

“Drogo is steering south it would seem. His mother has died, and I imagine that this Khal is more of a bigot than a hater of women, for it seems that her death has rankled him. Word says that he is marching south, and Astapor is on the lips of every Dothraki in their sea of ruins and corpses. You will stay here until I have the truth of it.”

“You feed us crab and soup only to chain us? Are we prisoners or guests?”

“Both,” Tormo Fregar said. “If you blunder on the Dothraki Sea, I would not have your fool deaths place Braavos in danger. But Astapor lingers on a river known as the Worm. A name I would associate with every slaver and whip wielder. And it is wide enough for my war galleys.”

“Your war galleys?” Jory remembered seeing such massive ships as they drew into Braavos a week past.

“Many in Braavos would consider wealth a means to accrue pleasures. I feel it’s only worth is to fight slavery. And the best way to do that is with a navy. I command twelve war galleys, with enough sellswords to match.”

“I did not realize that Braavos is at war.”

“Braavos is _always_ at war, Westerosi.” He pointed a finger at them. “Tell me, what is the first law of Braavos?” Alyn shrugged. “Have you not walked along the Long Canal?”

“I have,” Harwin said. “There was an arch there, with a thousand words scrawled on it. I could not read them.”

“The letters of all the languages in the world. There were words in the Common Tongue. What did they say?”

Harwin took a breath. “That no man shall ever be a slave.”

“That no man, _woman_ or _child_ will ever be a slave, _thrall_ or _bondsman_.” For the first time, Tormo’s eyes glittered. By Jory’s reckoning, it was the closest example of passion that the man has displayed. _This is the heart of it. He is not just a patriot. This man would be a breaker of chains._ “Every moment that someone else is chained to the will of the other, Braavos is at war. For too long the words were freely spoken, but swords never drawn to fortify them.”

“And you are different?” Harwin asked.

“Without a doubt. I can trace my lineage to the first founders of the city. There is no sweeter sound than an enslaved child knowing that she is now free. But too many of the merchant princes of the city have grown cold at the concept of putting steel to idea. I am different. I have twelve galleys at my disposal, and my treasury is deep enough that I can increase that number threefold and still be a wealthy man.”

“And would these merchant princes support you?” Harwin gave a doubtful look.

“Doubtful, but they have no choice but to name me Sealord. The Dothraki are on the rise, and Ferrego Antaryon is set to pass from compulsion. They need a commander for war, and I am the one. They call me warmonger behind my back, but the people proclaim me liberator. Every Braavosi that rose from guttersnipe to prince, every escaped slave that found worth in my city, wishes to set a blade in every slaver’s throat. The magisters and keyholders of the Iron Bank have no choice but to accept me.

“Now, what is Robb Stark’s loyalty to Jon Snow?”

“Hard to say,” Alyn admitted. “Before they were brothers. But now Lord Stark is dead…and if what you say is true, he may blame Jon for it.”

Jory looked to Alyn. “Robb and Jon are close as brothers. They _are_ brothers. The blood of Stark runs in them both. Robb rides to war to keep the North safe just as much to save Jon, I know it.” He looked at the future Sealord with an iron stare. “I know it.”

The Braavosi’s eyes narrowed. “Then Daenerys Targaryen can serve another purpose besides breaking her barbarian husband’s army. I will use her.” He stood up and began to walk away. “You will stay here until such a time we can confirm where the Dothraki march.”  
Alyn rose from his seat. It nearly fell over. “Use her? To what end? And what of Jon?”

“Use her to launch something Braavos should have begun years ago. A crusade on every slaving master in the world. And your Jon Snow is the key.” He walked through the door. “Enjoy the crab.”

 

**THE DAUGHTER OF WINTERFELL**

 

A welcoming party made up of servants in collars and a carriage awaited them on the Dock of Pearls. Sansa was thankful for the welcome – it had given her a hint of what life was like before Father was taken. Varys had shipped them off on a small vessel called the _Nimble Maiden_ , a swift trade cog that dealt in spices and carpets, and Sansa found she could not the harsh smell of the goods out of her clothes.

And Lord Varys insisted something had to be done with her hair. Four days past into hiding he arrived with a container of hair dye. “My dear, as lovely as your hair is, it is entirely Tully. We must make sure none are the wiser, at least until you are safe within the walls of Pentos.” She almost cried when she saw how dark her hair was. It was like the feathers of a raven. _Father always said how beautiful my hair was._

But as she looked, she realized just what she looked like. _I look like Jon. I have the dark hair of the Starks._ Jon was the half-brother she swore she would save. _No, I was sworn to save him._ Varys had rolled the dice for her, Sansa has realized as they crossed on the _Nimble_ Maiden. She could stay in King’s Landing, or find Jon. Father had sworn he would do the very same, Sansa was certain. Father never said it, but he loved Jon. And there she was, on a trade cog destined for Essos, and Father was…

 _Sandor Clegane called me a little bird. But I am a Stark of Winterfell. I need to be a wolf._ And after that the tears did not come.

Sansa looked out through the windows of the carriage as they were carried through the streets. She saw people of a dozen different colors – some were dark, other brown, and a few she could have sworn were yellow. Only a few had the soft pink skin that she recognized. She saw a man in a feathered hat ride a horse with black and white stripes. “Have you ever seen the like Ser?” By the wideness of his gray eyes, Sansa was certain he was just as awestruck as she was.

After an hour passed they had arrived at the manse of Illyrio Mopatis. Varys had stated that his Pentosi friend was rich and influential. Sansa could not say anything on how far Illyrio’s reach was, but his manse showed just how rich the man was. _Or boasted, perhaps_. As the carriage pulled up to the silver inlaid gates, Sansa guessed the manse was four stories high. Or perhaps five. And although it was not nearly the size of the Red Keep, it was an immense and bloated creature with high towers and multitudes of balconies.

“I heard that in Pentos, to be powerful is to be rich,” Ser Barristan said as the carriage drew up to the steps.

“Who told you that, Ser?”

“From a rich Pentosi, as matter of fact.”

She knew Illyrio Mopatis when she saw him. She had never seen a man so large, nor seen a beard that glimmered in the midday sun like his did. He wore loose flowing robes, and Sansa could have sworn she saw his rolls beneath the silk. All of his fingers were covered in rings. “I see before me a knight and a pup.”

“You must be Varys’ friend,” Ser Barristan said.

“Indeed I am, and any friend of my eunuch is a friend of mine. But are you his friends? Hrm, I wonder. It matters not. I welcome you to my home, knight and pup. My home is yours. My servants will provide you with rooms and food.” The Pentosi sniffed. “As well as a bath, I think. The Narrow Sea did not suit either of you.”

His servants led her to a bath, which was a wide pool that could have fitted twenty people. They drew in naked around her, with bottles of oil and sweet-water in hand. They scrubbed at her and washed out the grease and salt in her hair. A black tint formed in the waters around her as they scrubbed at the dyes in her hair. Steam rose up from the pool, and it took everything from her to not fall asleep right then. The heat flowed through her, massaged at all her aches. Her bones felt like they had melted as one.

She awoke the next morning in a feather bed, wrapped in soft blankets. When she stared at herself through a mirror, she saw that her hair was just as much red and black. _I’m somewhere between Westeros and Essos. Between Mother and Father._ Servants came and dressed her in a dress stitched with flowers, and they adorned her in perfumes. A dash on her cheek and a few drips on the back of her wrists. “The Master says you are permitted the estate,” said the girl with blonde hair. Sansa had trouble looking at her. The servant reminded her of the Queen.

But she did explore the manse. From the balcony of her room she saw that the manse was surrounded in brick wall, bright and pink. Vines and flowers climbed through the cracks. The air had a hot smell to it, and after Sansa thought for a moment, it reminded her of the spices that would be sprinkled on grilled auroch.

As she explored the winding halls, the servants trailed behind her. “When will I meet with Lord Mopatis?”

“We do not know, lady,” answered the one with dark hair. _We are here at his leisure. He will send me when he wants me._ “Where is Ser Barristan?”

“The gentleman is fine and well and is attended to,” answered the blonde girl.

She found her way to the courtyard, and she found a marble statue. It was of a boy, as naked as his nameday, and he must have been no older than six and ten. He held a long and slender sword in his hands. “Who is that?” she asked as she looked away. She felt shamed looking at such brazen nudity. Septa Mordane said a man and woman’s form should be saved for only husband and wife. It was what the Seven intended.

“It is the Master,” said the dark haired girl. “When he was a young man, as a bravo.”

The man was fat and grotesque, but the marble boy was slender and comely. How did the bravo become the lord of this manse? _How did Lord Varys befriend a rich Pentosi?_

As she wandered through the manse, she noticed there were multiple gates. All of them looked identical, and Sansa wondered which one was the front and which was the rear. Did it matter? The manse was so large that you could probably approach it from any direction.

The halls were adorned with paintings and portraits. Sansa was certain some of them depicted Illyrio Mopatis – some of the subjects were golden haired and fair skinned, and he was always dueling someone or seducing a maiden. She wondered how anyone could be seduced by the man that greeted her and Ser Barristan. The man spoke pretty, but Sansa could only think of Joffrey. _He spoke pretty too, and he took Father’s head._

The next morning Sansa awoke when a servant shook her softly. As she rose from the feather pillow, the servant said, “Magister Illyrio wishes to see you, My Lady.” She was drawn to the baths, and once again more of the black dye was scrubbed out from her hair. She was given another dress, stitched from fabrics both rich and light, and perfume was dashed on her wrists and cheeks. They scrubbed at her nails and at her feet, and rubbed sweet-smelling ointments on her legs.

Sansa was led to Ser Barristan and Magister Illyrio Mopatis. Both were lying across a cushion couch, but only the Magister looked comfortable. Ser Barristan was always shuffling in slight discomfort, his hands tucking away at his robe. He was dressed in a robe that looked a stone too large for him. Illyrio was eating from a bowl of grapes, the sweet juices rolling down his bright beard. “Join us, Lady Sansa. Your presence is welcome.”

She felt naked in her loose dress. Even the lightest of fabrics in King’s Landing was heavier than what she wore now. _A lady’s armor is courtesy_. Septa Mordane’s words echoed in her head. “Thank you for attending to us, Magister.”

“I am glad to see you have been attended to, My Lady. You are a vision.”

Sansa flattened the folds of her dress as she laid across the couch. “You are kind to say so, Magister.”

“I am an honest man.” Illyrio rubbed at his beard, wiping grape juices onto his soft robe. “I am no stranger of beauty. Both of my wives were wondrous creatures.”

“I did not realize you were married Magister.” _A lady remembers her courtesies._ “I am sorry for your losses.”

And the Pentosi Magister’s blue eyes went soft. “As am I, My Lady. My first wife was a gift from the Prince of Pentos. One of his many cousins. A wonder on the eyes, but her soul irked me something terrible. Now my second wife…Serra.” He sighed with longing as he reached into his sleeve and pulled out a locket. Painted on it was a man and a woman. The man was Illyrio, beyond a doubt. The rich golden hair, the chiseled face – it all matched the other depictions of him spread throughout the manse. The woman had hair of silver and gold, and her skin was pale and delicate.

“Serra,” he said again, with a smoothness that savored the name. “I rescued her from a Lysene pleasure house. I only intended to make her a bedwarmer, but she was so much more than that. When I made her my wife, the Prince closed the doors of his palace to me forever. It made no matter, for Serra was mine. Alas, the grey plague found its way to Pentos, and Serra was claimed among the thousands. I still keep her stone hand in my chambers.”

“Tragedy finds us all,” Sansa began. “I am sorry, Magister.”

“Were there no children?” Ser Barristan said. There was some bluntness in his voice. _The Magister talks of death and Ser Barristan asks more questions. Maybe some knights forget their courtesies._

 “A boy,” Illyrio said. His fingers caressed the locket. “But he was lost to me along with his mother. A pity. He had the most beautiful of hair.” He stuffed the locket back into his sleeve. “Enough. Nostalgia has been known to give me indigestion. Let us focus on the present. On those who still draw breath, and can change the world.” The Magister focused on Ser Barristan. “One of my birds has told me that the Dothraki march south, towards Astapor.”

“Brick and blood built Astapor, and brick and blood her people.” Ser Barristan sighed. “How far away is it from Pentos?”

“On foot? Months. Much further than Vaes Sash was. And a great deal more dangerous. You would not want to traverse the Demon’s Road, I promise you. However, I would not be content to seeing you part on foot. If you take a cog and sailed the coast, your venture would only take a few weeks.”

“Do you have something in mind, Magister?” _He would not have raised the possibility if he hadn’t._

 Illyrio Mopatis smiled. “Of course, child. I have three great cogs to my name, all of them captained by a captain under my employ. He is Groleo, and more than capable of seeing you off.”

“Why would we need three ships?” Ser Barristan asked. “We only need the one.”

“Because,” Illyrio said, “I do not think Daenerys Targaryen will be content with just the one. When I set her off with Khal Drogo, I never imagined she would last long. She was a beautiful thing, but small and made her servient to her brother. Viserys was prince, true, but I think the journey made him hard. If Daenerys was my Serra, and Viserys were to dare to touch her, I would have had all of his fingers cut off. But she was not, and I allowed Viserys his cruelties.”

 _What are you, Illyrio? You speak of on one hand saving Daenerys, of savoring your second wife, and on the other allowing Viserys to hurt his sister?_ Sansa turned to Ser Barristan, and saw one of his hands were clenched into a fist.

 “But then I saw Jon Snow. I brought him into my home, you know, after he was nearly murdered by street vermin. One man stood against a gang, and _survived_. My compliments to you Starks, Lady Sansa. You are all very hard to kill – with some help from the best surgeon in all of Pentos, of course. Saving your brother was not cheap, I swear to that.

“It was on the day that Viserys and I announced to Daenerys her betrothal to Khal Drogo. Daenerys made protest. Said she did not agree to the match. Neither would I if I were her, but I was the Magister, and she the princess in exile. Viserys said something that should not be repeated in kind company-“

“Speak the words,” Sansa insisted. “What did Viserys say to her?”

Illyrio sighed. “Something about letting Khal Drogo have her, and all of his riders, and even their horses, if it would give him his army. The prince was most insistent on conquering your home, My Lady.”

“And you were willing to help him,” Sansa stated.

“Even I have my debts to pay. Not all of a Magister’s worth is measured in trade contracts. Some of us have oaths sworn to beloved ones to uphold, and duties of blood to fulfill. I believe your father was quite the same, up until his drying breath.” _My Father would never let another sell his sister as you did._

 “And what does this have to do with Jon Snow?” Ser Barristan asked.

“Because that is when he finally woke up. Oh, I am not quite so romantic as that. I am certain that your brother had awakened from his deep sleep some time before, and had just arrived in the gardens when Viserys made the announcement. But without a doubt, that was when he made his presence known.” Illyrio clothed at his breast. “I will remember his words to my dying day, My Lady. ‘Is she not a princess of Dragonstone?’ His steps ached with pain. I saw how his hands trembled on his cane. But he was so focused on Viserys. His eyes were like cold fire. I had only seen the like once before, from a most zealous Braavosi. Your brother must have heard the entire conversation, and he would not stand for it. I knew it from every breath he took.” _Mother was not wrong. Jon is Father’s son._ She had never seen Jon show much fury…at anything. He was always solemn, always quiet. Always in thought. But Jon looked so much like Father…and Sansa could never imagine Father tolerating the scene that Illyrio described.

“I did manage to defuse the situation, and I later offered to help your brother find his way into the Golden Company. It would have been safer for us all if he had.”

“What do you know of the Golden Company?” Ser Barristan straightened his back. “That band of traitors and sellswords?”

“Ser, I know of your history with the Company. After all, your sword _did_ separate Maerys the Monstrous’ head from his neck. Well, one of his heads at least. In Westeros, you only know the Golden Company as the sworn swords of House Blackfyre. In Essos, we know them as the greatest mercenaries in the world. Their spears and shields more than make up for their prince. They have never abandoned a contract, and they have never retreated. All of the Free Cities know this. Jon would have been welcomed among their ranks, I had no doubt. I have friends among them. No one becomes a magister without learning the names and faces of the great sellsword companies.

“But My Lady, your brother put such plans to pieces when he swore his sword to Daenerys. At her wedding, no less. I had even invited a Golden captain to my manse, to bring Jon over. I was going to break the news to the boy the day after.” Illyrio sighed. “Ah well. Another plan consumed by the flames of youth.”

“Magister,” Ser Barristan said, “by your telling, Jon Snow’s devotion to the Princess is very plain. I can understand why she and he would…find love in each other. But what does any of this have to do with sending three cogs after them?”

Illyrio smiled. “Because I believe Jon made her strong. The Daenerys that was soft and weak died on her wedding night. All of Jorah Mormont’s letters suggest as such. She is as strong of a Targaryen as there ever was. And when you find her, you will not find just a woman, her man, and their babe. You will find followers and warriors sworn to their cause. Of that I have no doubt.”

“Jon would fight for her?” _Does he know what happened to Father? Would he convince Daenerys to help Robb? That might be enough to win the war. To defeat the Lannisters, to keep the South away from the North forever._

Illyrio smiled, drips of grape receding down his lips. “Lady Sansa, the Targaryens are not just known for their beauty. All of the sons of the dragonlords were said to be bold and inspiring. The songs all say as such. If Jon loves her, as I imagine he does, then it will be no great feat to make him fight for her as well. To bring her home.”

“They could join with Robb,” she said. “My brother. He is King in the North now. He fights against King Joffrey. If they could-“

“Indeed. Mayhaps. Who can say, until you are reunited with your brother, and see his child for the first time? Perhaps we will finally see the Seven Kingdoms united. It has been so long since Westeros truly was at peace.”

“And what of Viserys?” Ser Barristan asked. “Everything you said about the prince does not suggest he would bow to his sister and her…consort.”

And Illyrio took in a deep, remorseful sigh. “Ah, poor Viserys. I weep for him. He was murdered, just a few weeks past. Found in the primitive sewers of Vaes Sash, stabbed through the chest. He was half devoured by rats and feral dogs when they found him. Must have been dead for several days.”

_You weep for him. You say the words Magister, but I knew someone else who spoke pretty words. His name was Joffrey, and he was a monster._

 “You have done so much for the Targaryens,” Sansa said. “And for my brother. Of which I am grateful, Magister.” _You saved Jon. Does that mean I have to trust you?_ “Harbored them, protected them, arranged Daenerys’ marriage to this Khal Drogo. Why? If King Robert ever found you out-“

“His wrath would be something to behold, I am sure. ‘Ours is the fury’, am I right? Those are the words of House Baratheon?” Illyrio stroked at his beard. “I told you once before, Lady Sansa. I have debts to repay.”

“And what would you receive for repaying those debts? I am just a girl, Magister. I know nothing of debts, but I know there is more at stake for you here than just repayment.”

“Indeed,” the Magister smiled. “Viserys promised to make me a Master of Coin. I have no doubt that Daenerys would fulfill that promise. And Jon Snow _does_ need to repay me for saving his life. I have been caged in my manse for so long, I have forgotten what it meant to go on an adventure. Being Master of Coin, rebuilding your kingdom for the dragons? That is an adventure none have tasted before, and I want that dish.”

“So that is the truth of it,” Ser Barristan said. “You are in this for yourself. How can we trust you?”

“Because, Ser Barristan, what other choice do you have?”

 

**THE SHE-WOLF OF WINTERFELL**

 

The war with Tyrosh and Lys was on every lip in Myr. Even if they wouldn’t mention it directly, it hanged like a shadow over the city. Food vendors apologized for the absurd prices – it could not be helped they said. They did not say how the mercenary companies were taking all of the excess stock. The inn keepers would complain about how the sell swords were taken up nearly all room – and it was the innkeeps that had to pay for the privilege. Most of the forges Arya walked past were stripped bare. It didn’t take much for Arya to guess it was the mercenary companies that were responsible.

After two weeks, Arya probably hated them as much as the people of Myr. As she sailed on the _Son of Myr_ , she was certain she had a sure plan. Get to Myr, find a caravan travelling east towards Vaes Sash. Captain Naeros said that Myr would have plenty of caravans. “The greatest trading city in all of the world,” he boasted as she scrubbed the decks. “I don’t know why you’d want to see that upstart city for barbarians, but if there is any city that’d have safe travel for you, it will be Myr.”

Maybe Naeros was a patriotic idiot. Maybe he was right. But the coming war changed all that. No Myrman wanted to risk going through the disputed lands with war on the horizon. From alley to alley, the streets were pregnant with people that were scared and confused. She would hear some jest and boast, but behind the laughs and chuckles Arya could taste the fear in their voice.

During the day she would wander the streets, trying to find some merchant that would have need of a sword in the Disputed Lands. But the only way any merchant of Myr was leaving the city was by boat. “The seas are safer now,” a fat Myrman told her. “Not likely to be any Tyroshi or Lysene sellsail on the Narrow Sea. Plenty of their sellswords on the roads. I’m sailing for Braavos at the moon. No one ever bothers the Braavosi.”

When she was on the Narrow Sea, Arya wondered what she was going to do about Nymeria. Naeros whined and moaned when he saw the direwolf, but he honored the agreement all the same. But then she saw the menagerie of creatures on the docks. Large yellow cats with black spots, a horse that was just as much black as it was white, and even an elephant. At least, Arya was certain it was an elephant – she remembered the drawings that Maester Luwin had shown her. After seeing all those strange animals, Arya wasn’t surprised when Nymeria didn’t even get a glance. Well, maybe a few curious stares, but nothing more than that.

But when night set, Arya and Nymeria would make their way to the _Hazy Lens_. On her second night in Myr, Arya went from tavern house to wine sink to inn, looking for any that would give her a room at half rate in exchange for work. Only Melcom gave her an offer.

“Half rate for work?” he said as he scrubbed at the tables. He had stared her over. “That sword of yours. Where’d you get it girl?”

“It was my brother’s. And I know how to use it.”

The man shook his head. “I don’t need sellswords. Got enough of them pouring out of my arsehole.” Then he looked at her. “That’s a bravo’s blade. Who taught you, girl?”

“Syrio Forel.” _The First Sword of Braavos does not run_.

Melcom laughed. “That’s a lie. Everyone knows that Syrio Forel was the First Sword of Braavos, before he went and got Alevsri Poreto killed. No way he’d teach a little runt like you.”

Arya felt her anger flared up. “He _did_ teach me. I was his student! He taught me about chasing cats, about guessing the next thing, about standing on my tiptoes. He was the best sword in all of Braavos. He was the First Sword. And he _never_ ran.”

Melcom shook his head. “If you say so, girl. Then again…” and he took a long and considered look at her. “I know that stare. Looking at the man and beyond him at the same time. That’s the bravo stare, no doubt about that. I don’t care who you say trained you, the man was a bravo. Beyond a doubt. Although what type of braavo would teach a girl is beyond me.” The Myrman scratched at his rough chin. “I don’t need sellswords. But I could use somebody that can listen. So many men from a dozen different companies pour through my tavern every night. More than a share have caused me grief. Every night you report to me that someone is like to cause me some trouble before they go and do it, I’ll give you a room for half.”

The Hazy Lens wasn’t the biggest inn she had ever seen. The Inn-At-The-Crossroads was twice the size. She remembered how after three days the King had drained the Inn of its stores. But Arya wasn’t trying to listen to every bit of conversation that went down there. She wasn’t Arya the Water Dancer then. Back then she wasn’t the hunter of cats. She had used every lick of her senses when she hunted the cats of King’s Landing, and this was no different. Not really. The way people talked was like how the cats would slip between your legs. Left and right the cats would dash under you, and quick and slow the conversations flowed around you. The sell swords in their rough spun uniforms always seemed to talk nice and loose. Maybe because they didn’t think much of the girl in the corner. Their loss – wouldn’t be long before Melcolm would send some men their way to share words.

Except for the men with the golden bands around their arms. They were soldiers of the Golden Company, and they never said anything except “Here is what we want” and “Where is our food?” They always had grim and serious looks to their faces. And they always seemed to catch sight of Arya when she would have an eye on them. Arya learned quick not to bother those mercenaries. That was just asking for trouble.

Most nights Arya could get something that would force Melcom to honor his agreement. She would need to reason with him – and sometimes she would need to butter up the lie real good to make him buy it. But there were nights where Arya could honestly say that nothing was going to happen below the roof of the Hazy Lens, and no fib was going to change that.

Those were the worst nights. She would wander the streets until she found something safe and secure. A tight alleyway, a nudge between the streets that she could slip into, someplace out of the way and out of sight. She’d keep Needle close as she tucked herself against the stone and tried to find sleep. And often failed. Her fear would keep her awake, always watching with one eye half open. She felt Nymeria’s tension as she tried to sleep on the Myrish streets. But come morning she would still have her coin purse. And that’s what mattered most.

The days turned into weeks, and Arya had gotten used to the routine. By days she wander the streets, looking for any way she could make it to Vaes Sash. And everyday she would hear the same tired story. By night she’d keep a keen ear open in the Hazy Lens, and prevent trouble makers from making any trouble. Somedays Arya would think on how much she enjoyed the schedule. There was something nice about knowing what the day would bring. She remembered what it was like to live in the darkness of the Red Keep, the chaos of not knowing what would happen on the streets.

But then she would feel the lightness in her purse, and she remembered that she was standing on an hourglass. And the sands were draining at her feet.

“Don’t tell me you are thinking on trekking the dragonroads alone,” Melcolm said as he scrubbed the tables. His fingers were covered in lyefoam.

Arya scowled. “I’m a girl, not stupid. I’m not from Essos. And I know all you Myrmen are itching for war with Tyrosh and Lys. Being alone is suicide.”

“Not all of us Myrmen,” Melcolm grumbled. “Just the magisters. Tyrosh did something to piss Lys right off, and Lys did something to Tyrosh. And both are asking us for help and want a say from the magisters.”

“And what would you say, Melcolm.”

He spat on the table, and scrubbed it away. “That’s what I say.” The tavern door was open, and the nightsongs of the Red Priests could be heard. “Only good thing about those Red Priests are that they make damn good timekeepers.”

“I heard of a Red Priest, across the Narrow Sea. He was called Thoros of Myr.”

“Of Myr?” Melcolm’s big nose sniffed as he scratched at it. “Never heard a word of him.”

Arya had more than heard of Thoros. She had seen the man. He was a big ball of red, with a head and a long scruffy beard attached. “They say that he like to drink, and was quick to laugh.”

A smile cracked across Melcolm’s dark face. “Wish more of his red brothers were like that. Maybe they’d stop scaring away my customers.” The nightsongs were getting louder. Melcolm took out a rag and wiped away at his hands. Arya could see the rashness on his knuckles. “They’re belching pretty loud, which means only one thing.”

“Time for you to earn some money.”

“And for you to keep a keen eye out. Pick your spot, girl.” Arya had a favored place, a table that was right next to the stairs. It was keen to people spilling ale and mead all over her, but it also meant patrons were less weary of what they talked about. She heard more than a bit of gossip next to those stairs. Most of it was nonsense, such as the Tyroshi finding some sort of glass steel, or the Lynesse getting their hands on a crossbow that could fire shot after shot, or that a magister blew up from eating too many tomatoes.

In a few hours, the Hazy Lens had earned its name. It was covered in a thick smog of weed fog, the patrons laughing about as they were fetched mead and brandy and beer. It was a wild chorus of noises, from cheers to japes and threats. Most of those accusations were baseless, founded more on drink than on the intent to harm. Still, Arya gave a few words to the strongmen, and it wasn’t long before a few drunks were sent flying head first.

 _Another night, another room, another few coppers out of my purse_. Arya couldn’t take pride in how she failed Jon again. Every night she was in this tavern was another night she was not in Vaes Sash. Another night she wasn’t rescuing Jon and Daenerys from King Robert’s assassins. She could feel the hourglass sinking beneath her feet.

She remembered what she heard in the depths of the palace. The fat man and the bald man knew that Daenerys was pregnant with Jon’s child. How much longer until Khal Drogo found out? Could he have found out already? Was Jon already dead?

 _No_. _Not yet. He’s not._ Arya would not accept that. Jon will be alive when Arya finds him, Daenerys Targaryen will be with him, and she will find a way to rescue them both. She will bring them to Winterfell. Robb will protect them, and he will make Mother accept them. And then Robb will kill Joffrey, free Sansa, and everything will be better. Father could rest in peace.

Arya just needed a way out of Myr. She thought of the merchant ships, that perhaps one of them would bring her to a city with better prospects. But that would cost money and time, both of which Arya had little of. And there was no guarantee that any of the other cities would prove any better.

Then she saw from the corner of her eye something strange. Lilac eyes, staring back into hers. The man had pale gold hair, and an even paler complexion. Lines were tattooed down his face, and Arya was half certain that they extended to his purple fingernails. The man took a drink from his cup and rose. He moved across the tavern floor with a grace in his steps. _Alcohol has no sway on him. What is he doing in a tavern?_ Arya got her answer when she realized the man was approaching her.

“May one take a seat?” The man smiled in a way that Arya did not like.

“One would need to ask the wolf.” Nymeria was coiled beneath the table, but her golden eyes were fixed on the man. “She’s the one with the teeth.”

“Is the wolf master of the woman?”

“The wolf and the girl are comrades,” she said with more pride than she meant. “Perhaps one had a name, wolf and woman would share friendly words. Instead of veiled threats.”

The man smiled, his white teeth brimming in the light. “I am Lysono Marr, formerly of Lys. Now a free man amongst the Free Cities.”

Arya looked at him with suspicion. “Formerly of Lys? Wonder you haven’t been gutted in the streets.”

“The banner of the Golden Company offers protection. Now, what is the woman’s name?”

“Anya,” she lied. “Others would call me Underfoot.”

“And what reason would they have for that?”

“Because I’m quick,” she grinned. “Unlike you, when it comes to why we are having this talk.”

Lysono Marr laid his fists at his side. “The streets talk, Anya Underfoot. They say that there is a girl with a wolf, who has arrived on a ship from across the sea. And she has been asking the caravans the same question: ‘Will you leave for Vaes Sash?’ And she never gets the answer she wants. Still she asks, with the same persistence as the first day.”

“And why would this girl with a wolf be asking this question?”

Lysono Marr leaned in close. “Because she is looking for someone. Or she wants something. But a girl named Underfoot has caught someone’s eye.”

Arya rose to her feet. “And who would that be?”

“Mine,” Lysono said. “And he is not certain if it is true, but he does not believe that the girl is Anya Underfoot. He thinks she is someone very important. If that were the case, if the wolf at her side is more than just a wolf, than maybe the girl would like to follow Lysono Marr to his friends?”

“And why would a girl do that?”

“Because you have no other way to get to Vaes Sash. Not like you need to get there, Stark. You are several weeks too late.”

Arya leaned back into her seat, arms crossed across her chest. “I said you were slow to get to the point, Lysono Marr. What happened in Vaes Sash?”

“Words are wind, and spread quickly. You want to hear more? Then follow.” The man turned to leave, his cloak flapping behind him as he moved across the tavern. Arya looked to Nymeria. She didn’t like this, and neither did Arya. The man danced with his words. So did Syrio, but he was a _water dancer_ , and he spoke true to her. This Lysono just filled Arya with unease.

But he said – no, he _claimed_ – that something happened in Vaes Sash. And he knew that she was a Stark, something that nobody in Myr should know. Nymeria was strange and unusual, but she had seen plenty of exotic creatures in Myr. But Arya did not think he knew that she was Arya, just that she was a Stark. But as Arya looked at the man striding across the room, she felt that she was watching her one last chance to saving Jon leave.

She followed him. When she reached up to him, the man smiled. “We’re not far.” That, at least, was the truth. They walked an hour beneath the torch lit streets. Men from the mercenary companies paid them no mind as they walked. They walked past the banners of the Brazen Sons, and the Six Swords, and the Red Circle. Arya had seen the banners a hundred times, and she never dared to go near them. Myr had given each of the companies an old neighborhood, a place for them to rest while the magisters made plans on who to go to war with.

But when she saw the glimmering skulls of the Golden Company, Lysono Marr walked beneath it. “Why so surprised, girl of Stark? I did say that they protect me.”

“But you never said you were one of them.” Men in golden bands put a fist over their hearts as they walked past. She saw boys rushing past apartments with their tiny hands full of parchments or holding small boxes. Laborers were putting nails to wooden boxes and lifting them to carts.

“I never said I wasn’t.” Looming over them was a manse with silvery-red walls. She could see lemon trees growing in the gardens. The iron gates were colored red – or perhaps they were meant to look purple? Arya couldn’t tell in the darkness. “And here we are. The home of the Golden Company in Myr.”

“You own this?” The manse was huge. It wasn’t nearly as big as Winterfell, but it was definitely the biggest building she saw in Myr.

“More like allowed it.” The iron gates swung open as men of the company pushed. “After me, Stark. Will your wolf be of trouble?”

“Only if I let her.”

“Then, pray, don’t let her.”

Nymeria padded behind her as they entered through the rose-colored gates. The walls were draped in the sweet banners of the Golden Company. The bright skulls on the banners were pierced by a trio of spears. Lysono Marr guided her through the halls, and Arya could see men in the other rooms. They were fair skinned and dark, some had braided hair and others were loose. Some had no hair at all. But they were all covered in jewels and gilded rings, and bands of gold were wrapped around their arms.

“Fancy some of those riches?” Lysono Marr had a shadow of a smile on his face.

“I don’t need jewels.”

“No,” he said, “you have something more valuable in mind. But we’re not all born from noble blood. We have to make our own fortunes. And we of the Company prefer to keep it close.”

“As in on you always?”

Lysono shrugged. “What is closer, thank keeping your treasures on you?” They approached a set of double doors, carved from red ash. Two men of the Company stood at the entrance, garbed in leather stained gold. Lysono only had to nod, and the guards opened the doors. The wood groaned on the iron hinges. “After you, Lady Stark.”

The room smelled of ink and sweat. Braziers hang from the walls and gave a warm glow. Trails of candle wax littered the tables and cabinets. There was a large and wide table, with daggers and candle holders holding a leathery map in place. Looming over it was a man with a face carved in scars, his ears long and floppy. He wore a loose tunic; Arya could see the dark gray curls of his chest hairs. Beside him was soft faced man who had strings of hair strewn across his balding head.

“So this is the Stark girl,” said the big man with all the scars.

“The letter from Illyrio said she would be arriving in Pentos.” The bald man frowned. “Myr is a ways off from Pentos.”

“Your Illyrio is an idiot then.” Arya stepped towards the table. “I never had an intent for Pentos. I just found the first ship that would bring me to Essos.”

“Fortune upon fortune that you found Myr then.” The bald man smiled. “Now you can meet with the Golden Company.”

Lysono motioned towards the scared man. “Lady Stark, this is Myles Toyne. He is the Captain-General of our wonderous company.”

The bald man smiled. “And I am Harry Strickland.”

“What do you do?” Arya asked.

“He counts coins,” Myles Toyne answered.

Arya turned towards Lysono. “And you are more than just a man with painted nails.”

“I,” he said with a bow of his head, “am the Company’s master of spies and letters. More letters on some days than spying, but a man does what he must.”

“And what is your name, Stark?” Myles looked at her with a dry look. “The Lysenne said he found a daughter of Eddard Stark, but he couldn’t get a name.”

“Arya,” she said. She didn’t like this, telling them who she was. But these men knew of House Stark, they knew her father. A lie would get her nowhere.

“Arya.” Lysono tasted the name. “Anya. Next time, be more creative with your subterfuges.”

“And you would know a thing or two about that?”

“As a matter of act,” Harry Strickland said, “he would. His lies and deceptions have proven almost as valuable as the Company’s discipline.”

“So you knew I was a Stark. You didn’t know which one. It’s not like I was the first Westerosi to come to Essos.”

“No,” Myles Toyne said. “That honor belonged to the Bittersteel of our founding. But we knew you Stark children had direwolves. And we were expecting word on a Stark in Pentos. Illyrio had met your brother, more than a year past.”

“Illyrio knew Jon?”

“The Magister more than knew him,” Lysono said. He rubbed at his pale lips. “He nursed Jon to help after he was nearly murdered by rats of the Pentosi streets.” _Jon almost died?_ It was almost a year ago, if what they said was true. While she, Sansa and Father were feasting, Jon was fighting for his life. She felt a twisting in her stomach. “That was when we first learned of a Stark with a direwolf,” Lysono explained. “Once we caught eye of you with yours, it didn’t much to connect the pieces.”

“Although that does raise one question.” The paymaster tapped his fingers on his crossed arms. “What would make Illyrio Mopatis think there was a Stark girl bound for him in Pentos? In the company of Barristan Selmy?”

Arya looked to the man with confusion. “Barristan Selmy? Last I heard he was still in King’s Landing when I managed to slip out. I don’t think I even saw the man but a few times.”

Harry sighed. “This conspiracy becomes more confusing by the minute.”

Her patience was at an end. “Then how about one of you tell me just what happened to my brother Jon and Daenerys Targaryen?”

“Well,” Harry began, “he got her with child for one.”

She stomped her foot. “I know that, damnit! That’s why I made across the sea in the first place! To take them home. What happened in Vaes Sash? This one,” and she pointed to the painted spymaster, “said they aren’t in Khal Drogo’s city anymore!”

Myles Toyne frowned. “You didn’t say a word to her?”

Lysono shrugged. “A mummer doesn’t reveal the tragic ending at the start of the play. Why would I cast a light on all of my secrets?”

Myles Toyne shook his head. “Your brother and Daenerys are not in Vaes Sash because Khal Drogo isn’t in Vaes Sash. They are marching towards Astapor.”

“Astapor?” Arya tried to connect the name with a place. She remembered hearing it somewhere before, but it was all a fog in her memory.

“One of the three whores of Ghis,” Myles Toyne spat. “Slavers, and damn good at it.”

“And damn profitable,” Harry Strickland noted. “The three cities of Slaver’s Bay make up almost a third of all the wealth of the continent.”

“Why would Khal Drogo be going there? Did Astapor do something to him?”

Lysono Marr shrugged. “Doubtful. The slaver cities made their profits by staying out of everyone’s business. Astapor is known for giving Essos their Unsullied. But Drogo seems intent on dueling with fate. And we intend on racing him there.”

“Why would you be going to Astapor?” She looked to Myles Toyne. “Why would any of you be going to Astapor? You’re contracted to Myr.”

“And the prestige of the Golden Company is in how we have never broken a contract. If we break our word to Myr-”

“And I heard your words on that, Harry. You keep forgetting that the Golden Company is meant for more than fattening our coffers. Bittersteel made us a promise to return home, and to do that with a black dragon at the front. Well, a red dragon is not much different. And Daenerys Targaryen is being dragged by her husband to Astapor.”

Arya crossed her arms. “And how are you so certain of this?”

“I would be a poor spymaster if I didn’t know the plans of some barbarian.” Lysono Marr had a glimmer in his lilac eyes. “And, Ser Jorah Mormont did write as such to Illyrio Mopatis.”

“Jorah _Mormont_?” Nymeria growled at the name. “The man’s a kinslayer! He ran when Father rode to arrest him!”

“All true,” Harry confirmed. He sucked at his teeth. “But our benefactor believes he can be trusted.”

“The fat man,” Myles Toyne scoffed, “has almost as many plans as he does folds of flesh. But he knows which of his birds are worthwhile. And Mormont has worth.”

“The man is a craven.”

“And so long as he is not a member in my Company, Arya Stark, I care not. Only that he gives information that can be trusted. How else did you think word got out that you were made an aunt?”

Harry Strickland licked his lips. “Jorah Mormont’s words are true, Arya Stark. We will meet with your brother and Daenerys Targaryen in Astapor.”

“So why am I here then?” She looked to each of the masters of the Golden Company. “You don’t need my permission to march. You want something from me.”

“She is keen,” Lysono said. “We need you, Arya. Does your brother love you?”

He would call her little sister, and ruffle her hair. They would finish each other’s sentences. Years ago, he had promised that he would never leave her. “He loves me,” she said, with a little wetness in her eyes. “Needle is the sword he gave me.”

“Then you are the key,” Lysono nodded. “If you can get to Jon Snow, you can convince her.”

Arya narrowed her eyes. “To do what?”

“To bring us home,” Myles Toyne said. For the first time that night, Arya saw a smile on the man’s face.


	8. The Doubts That Scratch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Khal Drogo's march towards Astapor begins. Jon Snow grows desperate. A conspiracy is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter in which I did not use any music. Didn't really single out any piece of music that I had on repeat while writing this chapter, and none of the scenes really provoked any need for music. I mean, the site *is* easier on the eyes than AO3, so you can still use it. I guess.
> 
> http://www.chaosinferred.com/creative/asoiaf/dragons/8-the-doubts-that-scratch/

**VIII**

**THE DOUBTS THAT SCRATCH**

 

**THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL**

 

Jhogo frowned at the cup of beer in his hands. “Even their drinks stink of sheep.” Jhogo leaned over the table, his fist leaning into his cheek as he stared at the drink with disapproval. Dothraki and Lhazareen moved across the drinking pit. A month had passed since Khal Drogo announced his march on Astapor. They rode through the Dothraki Sea, past the towering ruins of the ancient cities. The ruined sons of Sarnar loomed over them as they rode. And after many weeks, Drogo’s Horde arrived at the rolling plains of Lhazar.

And so, Jhogo was here with Jon, laying in one of the alcohol pits within the flock city of Hesh, being endlessly disappointed with the alcohol. Jon took a sip and frowned. He couldn’t blame Jhogo. It tasted sour, with none of the sweetness. Jon took a quick glance. One of the Lhazareen were staring at him. A year ago, Jon would have considered one of the sheep herders no different from any Dothraki, but he knew better now. The Lhazareen were too flat faced, and their hair too short and thin. Their look was all different, in everything from their face to the way they stood.

“You should speak softer,” Jon advised. “They may not speak Dothraki, but they can hear you plain enough.”

“Let them,” Jhogo muttered. “Maybe they’ll learn to brew something decent.”

“We are their guests, Jhogo,” Jon cautioned. When they arrived on the plains of Lhazar, Drogo sent out a company of riders to each of the three flock cities. They had a simple message on their lips: “Allow us passage, attend to our needs, or know the Khal of Khals.” Hesh, Kosrak, and not even proud Lhazosh denied them. All of the riders came back with the knowledge that the Golden Horde will be fed and sheltered, for as long as the Khal desired.

“Are we, Jon? Are guests treated with such disdainful looks in Rhaesh Andahli?”

“No,” Jon admitted. “But it is better if you act as we are.” In truth, the Lhazareen were being held hostage for so long as Khal Drogo remained in the city. No doubt word of his Golden Horde had spread to Lhazar. Jon was half surprised that Drogo had not raided them in all his years of conquest. It would be a kindness for Jon to say that the Lhazareen looked capable. A wet cat looked more fearsome than the worshipers of the Great Shepherd. They did not know how to hold their weapons, and Jon saw they had no sense of how to hold their positions. Their legs were always too far apart, their knees too wobbly.

Then again, not all of the Lhazareen were so weak. Some called themselves the Rams, and they had good reason to. With the horn of rams that hung from their belts, they stood apart from the rest. While their brothers held a shepherd’s crook in their hands, the Rams gripped the leather hilts of their arakhs.

But the Rams were few, just a small exception of the herd. The rest had no business being on a battlefield. No wonder they gave in to the Khal’s demands. A prolonged siege would have lasted them a week, perhaps two. Jon doubted they would make it to the third. They had no drum towers, no moats to keep invaders from scaling the walls, no slits for them to fire arrows from. It would be a slow slaughter, but a slaughter nonetheless.

But those were weeks Drogo could not afford. He needed to get to Astapor as soon as possible. He had perhaps only a few months before the Astapori would be prepared. That was the only reason why the Horde hadn’t brought out their pitch and torches, and why the Lhazareen had to tolerate the Dothraki. Drogo had to outrace the word of his coming.

Jhogo narrowed his eyes as a Lhazareen gave the man a foul look. “We could take them on a battlefield a hundred times, kill them all, mount their women and sell their children. Instead, we simply eat from their stores. And endure their stares. They should be thankful.”

“Would you? Some invader comes to your land, takes your food, and threatens to put all you have to the sword? Would you be so quick to be thankful?”

“That would never happen. We are Dothraki.” Jhogo raised his head with pride. “It is the way of the strong to control the weak.”

“Jhogo,” Jon said, “were the Dothraki always so strong? I remember how we traveled on the dragon roads. Valyria used to be the strongest of all the kingdoms. Surely the Dothraki bowed to them. Not everyone is strong forever.”

Jhogo shook his head. “Surely you’re not suggesting that these sheep could rule over the horse lords?’

“Who knows?” Jon shrugged. “I’m sure the dragons never thought that the stag or the wolf could push them off the Iron Throne. Now look where Daenerys Targaryen is.”

“Khaleesi of the Golden Horde, with the son of the Khal of Khals riding in her womb.”

 _She has my son prowling in her._ But Jon kept that to herself. It had been more than a year since he had set sail from White Harbor. He never imagined that he would have found a Targaryen. He never even would have thought he’d swear to protect the Targaryen princess, let alone find love in her. He was committed to joining the Night’s Watch. He knew those vows. He would have accepted being a man who would never know what it was like to hold a son in his arms.

And in a few months, Jon will be a father. He will hold his son in his arms. Jon dreamt of him sometimes, during the sleepless nights on the road. He had dark hair in some, the Targaryen silver and gold in others. Jon wondered what he would think, how he would feel. He imagined Dany as mother in a thousand different ways. As a noble woman in one of the Free Cities, in a few as an honored daughter in Winterfell. And rarely, Jon would dream of her as Queen, but he never saw her on the Iron Throne. Her seat always changed shape and colors, but never was it iron, and never forged out of swords.

“You’re smiling, Andal,” Jhogo said as he gave Jon a playful shove at his shoulder. “Must be that handmaiden you’ve been bedding.”

“I’m just eager to get back on the road.” There was some truth to that. Jon didn’t like staying in Lhazar. He thought he was unnerved by the Dothraki, but being with a people that hated you was far worse. And it was the mercenaries that filled Jon with doubt. A dozen different companies had answered the allure of Drogo’s gold – which was only half as much as the man expected. There was an apparent war between Tyrosh, Lys and Myr that drained the better part of the most renowned sellswords, leaving Drogo to pick up the lesser companies. “These mercenaries unnerve me.”

The brightness dimmed in Jhogo’s eyes. “A man who kills for gold is just a snake in armor.”

“Didn’t the Dothraki fight for riches and spoils?”

“That is different, Jon Snow. We fought for the promise of gold. These sellswords demand it upfront. Besides, none have eyes like that Bloodbeard.” That was the only name that the leader of the Company of the Cat went by. It fit the man; his hair was all crimson, dark as blood, and his beard was a massive thing that sprawled down his chest.

Bloodbeard earned his name from more than just his looks. The man wanted battle and glory, and he had no patience for anything else. The man moaned and bellowed about the slow march to Astapor. “Let my blades feast on the hearts of the Astapori.” And Jon had seen his battle carved face. The man wasn’t the Warrior reborn again – he was the Stranger. He was death, formed from bloody ruins.

“Yes,” Jon sighed. “None have eyes like that Bloodbeard. And every Dothraki should keep their eyes on him.”

“You think he will betray us?”  
“I think he will do something we will all regret. The man is named _Bloodbeard_ , Jhogo. You Dothraki believe in omens. That’s an ill of an omen if I ever saw one. Why would the Khal ever accept the contract of the Cats?”

“Because the Khal needs men.”

That he did. The horse lords were fearsome riders, and they knew the strengths of a cavalry. But their light armor and arakhs could do little against hard resolve and iron discipline. Jon had heard of the exploits of the Unsullied, when the first Khal of Khals was broken against their spear walls. And Drogo was marching right to the heart of them, where they were all cut and trained. It would be a battle sung for years and years. _But he will die before then. I will hear his last breath in my ears, and then Dany will be free._

Ever since they left Vaes Sash behind, Jon had been thinking on what must be done. Dany had been poisoning her husband every day, and yet the Khal still lived. Doreah had gathered poisons every day, but now they were away from Vaes Sash. Was there enough poison within Khal Drogo? Was his fate sealed?

He could not tell her of what he intended. He knew what Daenerys would say. Jon was willing to wait for the poisons to do their work when they were in Vaes Sash. But Doreah had no more poisons, and Jon needed to do something. _Let my sword sing. Father gave me the sword. Let it save my family. Dany, run to the Free Cities. Sell the eggs, forget about going to Westeros. Let our son live to hold a boy of his own in his arms._

“You have a sour look, Andal.”

“I’m just tired of eating nothing but mutton,” he sighed. It wasn’t all a lie – he _was_ tired of eating nothing but flame licked lamb. That was all the Lhazareen seemed capable of preparing. Or all they were willing to offer.

Jhogo nodded. “I share the feeling. These sheep fuckers can’t even cook sheep right. Best mutton I ever had was in one of the Free Cities. What’s the one with the tower?”

“Tyrosh,” Jon suggested.

“Yes, yes. Tyrosh.” Jhogo spoke the word with emphasis. “Must have been the spices. It made the meat melt in my tongue. Don’t tell Rakharo or Aggo that I said that.” Jhogo scratched at his chin. “Every man knows that the only meat worth anything is carved from a horse.”

“I promise,” Jon grinned. He remembered when they first went into the Eastern Markets, and Aggo and Rakharo devoured sausages in some contest. Jon couldn’t recall if they knew that the meat was pig. Perhaps they didn’t care, and just needed an excuse for another competition. Dany had found some delight in the contest, but she smiled when she savored the grease from the meat.

“You ever had horse, Jon?” He gave Jhogo a strained look. “Across the black sea. Back where you call home.”

“No,” Jon said. “I did have auroch, though. And pig.” He smiled. He could almost smell the roasted pig hide, wrapped in bacon, and being cooked over a roaring fire. “Plenty of pig.”

“And you would not wander across Rhaesh Andahli, as we Dothraki would, before Khal Bharbo and Vaes Sash.” Jhogo bit on his lip. “You only had one home, am I right?”

“Winterfell,” Jon said. “The seat of my father. He was lord of the North.”

“Your father, he was a khal. Like this Khal Aegon you told me about.”

Jon scratched at his whiskers. “He was and he wasn’t.” His Lord Father had his bannermen, and they had their bannermen in turn. One oath of loyalty would be linked to another, and with the release of the ravens the North could have been summoned at Eddard Stark’s command. He could make decrees and rule from Winterfell, but he wasn’t king. That belonged to Robert Baratheon, who had the bent knees of all the Paramount Lords of the realm. “He was more than a ko, but less than a khal. It is different, back where I came from.”

“But you are his son. You are a…” Jhogo licked at his lips. “Khalakka, aren’t you? Oh, fuck me Jon.” Jhogo laughed at his frustrations. “You are a prince, that is the word, right? _Heir_.”

“No,” Jon said. “I have an older brother, Robb. But even then, if he were to die…” The words tasted like daggers. _Robb won’t die. He will live to be sixty, with gray hair and will become the Lord of Winterfell. I may see his children someday, red haired sons and daughters of the North._ Jon wondered what he would live to be. He would never go to the Wall, not now, not after Daenerys. Not after their son. “There is a reason my name is Jon Snow, and not Stark. Lord Stark is my father, but he laid with another woman who was not his wife. And I came from that dishonor.”

Jhogo looked at him. “Dishonor? Any man can take any woman.”

Jon narrowed his eyes. _He laughs with me, shares food and drink with me, but the man is still Dothraki._ “Not in Westeros,” he said stubbornly. “A man chooses one woman, and that woman is chosen for him. And they belong to each other, and only each other. To break that vow is…” It wasn’t treason. Many Lords had bastards. King Robert had been known to have fathered a dozen bastards, at the very least. One of them was even harbored at Storm’s End. Jon wasn’t sure he had ever heard of marriage being dissolved because of such a thing. “It taints a man’s honor.”

“You always speak of your father. Khal Stark this, Eddard Stark there.” Jhogo peered at Jon. “What of your mother?”

Jon shook his head. “She was a woman. Most of them are.” The dwarf’s words echoed in his head. “That’s all I know.” He dreamt of her often enough, sometimes so vividly that she was clear as day. Her hair was dark and beautiful, her eyes highborn and kind, and her lips spoke soft and loving things into his ear.

“Well, Jon Snow of Winterfell.” Jhogo laid a hand on his shoulders. “The bastard of Winterfell. The son of Khal Stark. I am glad your father met your nameless mother. Because, who else would share this goat piss with me?” Jhogo raised his cup.

 _Not too many_. Jon found that a smile had spread to his lips. _Of all the Dothraki, Jhogo is one of the good ones. A poor man by other standards, but I’ll take what I can._ He raised his cup.

 

**THE KNIGHT WITH NO KING**

 

The salt air licked at his face. The _Saduleon_ swept its way across the Narrow Sea, the blue waters crashing against its gold painted hulls. Barristan could not say that he knew much of sailing, or the open waters, or much of anything about traversing the Narrow Sea. The first time he had planted his feet on a ship’s galley was during the last of the Blackfyre Rebellions. He was one amongst thousands, to strike down the Band of Nine on the Stepstones. He remembered how much he had retched over the rails of the _Balerion_.

Maybe that first journey when he was a young man had given him a hard stomach. He hadn’t retched when he slipped out of King’s Landing with Lady Sansa, and Barristan did not feel his stomach gurgling as the _Saduleon_ sailed under the open sky. The sea wind pulled at his white hair as he looked over the rail. Looking at that clear sea, stretching out further than he could see, Barristan felt so small.

There must have been some appeal in that. There have always been men that felt more alive when on the decks of a cog or a galley than when on gods-formed earth. Something about the sea, the squawks of gulls, the flapping of the sail – all of that must have waken something in them. But Barristan couldn’t see it. All he could think was when they would reach port.

At first, Barristan was wary of Groleo. The man was under the employ of the Magister, and that was a man that Barristan trusted as much as he could throw him. Which, going by the Pentosi’s immense weight, would probably be not far at all. But somehow the gruff captain had won the knight over. The captain would always speak his mind, but he did it with a laugh and a smile. And perhaps with a few cups of wine. It had seemed so long since Barristan had met someone who was plain and frank.

That was something that Barristan missed. When he was Kingsguard, Barristan was surrounded by men that spoke in layers. They said one thing, and would say something else at the same time. No one said what they meant. They only implied. Lady Sansa was different. Whenever she spoke, as veiled by courtesies as they were, there were no deceit in them. But Barristan remembered his sisters, and they were never as quiet as Lady Sansa. _Of course she would be. Joffrey made her look at her father’s head on the wall. Her brother is fighting a war in the North. And who can say what fate has befallen Jon Snow?_

Robert Baratheon never made anyone doubt what he wanted. He said what he wanted, and he got what he wanted. More wine, more women, more tourneys, more taxes. More of everything, and less of it as well. Less of the sense of grandeur in the throne, less of the sense that the King was more than just a man.

Barristan peered across the waters. Somewhere, out there, was the last dragon. Daenerys Targaryen. He had sworn to protect her father, but he failed. He fought to save her brother on the Trident, but he failed. He would not fail he, nor would he not fail the child that grew in her womb.

And for the sake of Sansa Stark and the Princess, he would not fail the bastard. _He must be more than a bastard in her eyes._ When he finally found them, he would need to remember that. Daenerys may not seek to make Jon Snow king. Surely, she understood that she had to cultivate a royal bloodline with a noble marriage. But Jon Snow could very well be the man that would always claim her heart. Barristan must remember his courtesies. Treat Jon Snow with respect and dignity. Daenerys chose him, after all. He may very well have been the one source of light she had.

“A white sword does not judge. He only protects. Remember that, Barristan.” Those were one of the first lessons imparted on him by Gerold Hightower, and Barristan made sure to serve by it. But in the years following the death of King Aerys, in the years after the flight of the Targaryens, Barristan questioned the wisdom of those words. What if Barristan had done more than just stood watch? What if Aerys had fallen before the Rebellion could even be nursed in the mind of Robert Baratheon? Perhaps then, Rhaegar would be sitting upon the Iron Throne, Prince Viserys would not have died away from his home, and Daenerys Targaryen would be a Princess.

 _Regrets can kill a man. Doubts can slow his mind._ And a slow mind can be his end on a battlefield. He couldn’t hear the cries of dying men, the piercing screams of horses pierced by javelins, but he was on a battlefield all the same. He was in a war of shadows and deceptions. Every word from Illyrio Mopatis was another volley of arrows.

And the more that Barristan listened to him, the closer he walked under the shadows of that volley. But it was just as the Pentosi said. There were so few that Barristan could trust, save perhaps Lady Sansa. Jon Snow was her brother, natural born or not, and she was sincere in her desires to rescue him. But she was here just as much because she wanted to as Varys gave her no other choice. As much as he enjoyed the captain’s company, could he trust Groleo? He was one of Illyrio’s men, and the only reason he and Lady Sansa stood on the _Saduleon_ was because of the cheesemonger’s gold.

“Barristan!” The Pentosi made his way down the steps to the galley. One of his men had taken over the wheel of the _Saduleon_. His salt and pepper beard was tugged by the wind. He kept a wide brimmed hat just as much to keep the air out of his face as he did to keep his hair from getting in front of it. “I have been told that if a man looks at the sea for too long, he is likely to fall into it.”

“Have you found it to be true?”

“I never wanted to find out. Though, I have never dreaded trekking across the waters as you do.”

“Am I so plain to read?”

“Like an open book, with its contents free for all to see. I knew the minute you stepped onto Magister Illyrio’s cog that you preferred the hardness of the earth beneath your feet.”

“Is there something you would say, Captain?” He feared the man would reveal they had found a bad wind.

“The winds favor us,” Groleo smiled. Barristan sighed in relief. “We will need to make a stop in Tyrosh. Not that I am happy to stay with one of the Three Whores.”

Barristan recognized the title. The man was referring to Tyrosh, Myr and Lys. Those three cities have been fighting over the Disputed Lands for as long as Barristan could remember. They had allied only once, during the Dance of the Dragons. Barristan couldn’t remember why, or for what cause, but the Three went back to their disputes almost as quickly.

“Although, at least it is not Myr,” Groleo said with a smile. “They have hired the Golden Company, and I know you are not particularly fond of them.”

His sword had found the head of Maelys the Monstrous, and with that put the Company’s last chance at putting a Blackfyre on the Iron Throne. He supposed the Golden Company would not be too favorable to Barristan Selmy either. “At least it is not Myr,” he echoed in agreement. “How long would we need stop in Tyrosh?”

“A few days at most. The less the better. The sooner we finish this business in Astapor, the sooner we can all go home.” Barristan couldn’t blame him. Grolelo had two young daughters, and although the Captain rarely spoke of them, his eyes gleamed whenever he did so. Barristan would sometimes wonder what it would be like to hold a son or daughter in his arms. If he hadn’t taken the oath of the Kingsguard, he would have been the Lord of Harvest Hall.

But he wore the white cloak. That brought more joy and pride to him than any son or daughter could.

He had seen the coastal maps, and made as much sense as the Gods would allow. “We would need to sail pass Valyria,” he said.

“We will sail _around_ the Doom,” Grolelo said with determination. “Every man knows that demons rule the ruins of the dragonlords. Going through that cursed fog would be a death sentence.”

“Have there never been no safe passages through?”

Grolelo spat. “None ever discovered. And I don’t intend to be the first. Let some other mad fool find some hidden river. I will play it safe, and _live_. We will sail around.”

“That would take some days.”

“And we won’t be petrified corpses by the end of it. I’ll take living over adventure, Barristan of Westeros.”

“I’ll take that as well, Grolelo. How long until we make port in Tyrosh?”

“By these winds? Two days. By the week’s end Illyrio’s ships will be back on the open sea. I will get you and Sansa Stark to Astapor, Barristan. You can count on that.”

It wasn’t the getting to Astapor that made Barristan pace the deck. It was what he would do when they arrived. He knew nothing about the city, nor the language that was spoken there. Barristan didn’t understand a single word of Ghiscari, but surely there would be some remnants of the Common Tongue in Slaver’s Bay. But even then, he would need to find a way to infiltrate the camp of Khal Drogo, find Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow, and somehow make it out alive.

He had faced drastic odds once before, during the siege of Duskendale. But that was a different time, when he had an army at his back, and knowledge of what waited for him in the keep. The future was a thick fog, and Barristan had no torch in hand.

 _One step at a time. First we need to get to Slaver’s Bay._ Perhaps by the time they reached the city, Khal Drogo will have launched his siege. It would be easier to slip in when there was chaos all around him. But would Jon Snow be involved in the fighting? Was he dedicated to the Khal’s cause? Has he forsaken the Princess? They could have attempted an escape by now. Why the delay? If the child in the Princess’ womb was Snow’s, that could be the death of them all.

No, Jon had to know. Barristan had never met the bastard, but Lady Sansa had said that he was raised alongside the heir to Winterfell. He was not some brain addled fool with a comely face. Barristan suspected that the man had a wit, or some intellect that appealed to the Princess. Even the worst of the Targaryens held their lovers to a high standard. There were countless stories of the lengths lords of the court went through to attach their daughters as Aegon the Unworthy’s next mistress.

He made his way down to the cabins. Barristan tired of having the salty air whipping in his face. Grolelo could proclaim how much he loved the scent of the sea for an eternity, it wouldn’t convince Barristan of the appeal. Sansa was laid across her bed, her fingers woven at her chest. “My Lady, I suspected you would have been on the deck.”

She turned to him. Even in the dim orange light, her blue eyes glowed. “I was, for a time. But I found it hard to think with all the noise. The sailors pulling on the mast, the groan of the ship, I found it too much.”

Barristan smiled. “We are of one mind then. I could only tolerate the sea air for so long. Captain Grolelo is adamant on its appeal, but I found it lacking.”

“The Captain is a good man, isn’t he? We can trust him.”

“One of the few,” Barristan nodded.

“I think this is how my father felt in King’s Landing. Surrounded by men he couldn’t trust, desperate to find direction. I never saw it. I could only see my golden prince. I couldn’t see the beast beyond his pleasant face.”

“You could not have known,” Barristan comforted. “You are not to blame.”

“I have more blame than most,” she said with her narrow eyes. “Do you remember the night when Joffrey was mauled by my sister’s wolf?” Barristan nodded. _We had spent days prowling the forest looking for Arya Stark and her direwolf. The Lannister soldiers and the Stark guard competed with each other to find the girl first._ “He tried to kill her.” Her voice had turned as cold as ice. “But Nymeria saved my sister. The direwolf knew that Joffrey was the monster, but all I could think was how Arya was ruining everything.”

“A different time,” Barristan reasoned. “You were a different person. We have all changed.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I have. I am a Stark, Ser Barristan. My family comes first. Always.”

 

**THE SHE-WOLF OF WINTERFELL**

 

A hard rain was assaulting her. The Disputed Lands were a green grassland, full of bright farms and fields for the three cities to fight over. That was before the storms. Now they were brown and gray, the mud sticking to the hooves of her destrier. Nymeria had never looked so miserable, with her soaked fur that clung to her in clumps. The men of the Company said this was the Disputed Lands, but the Drowned Lands seemed a better name. Her cloak was soaked in the rain, and there wasn’t a dry road around. Not that Arya could see far, with the gray clouds that were cast over everything.

If Arya had a say in anything, she would have had made camp for the day. A soaked tent was better than trekking their way through this thrice-damned rain, but the Black Heart wouldn’t have it. “The sooner we reach Volantis, the better,” Myles Toyne decided. “You didn’t see all of the Company in Myr, Arya Stark.”

“Where were they then?” she had demanded.

“Away from the Myrmen. Illyrio Mopatis advised us that something would be stirring amongst Khal Drogo. We kept half of the Company in reserves, spread across the other Free Cities.”

“So why Volantis?” Of all the Free Cities, Volantis was the most well known for their slaves. Arya didn’t know much, except that the face of slaves were branded with their station.

The Black Heart frowned at her for that. “You ask too many questions for a guest, Arya Stark. Keep riding.”

And so they had, for leagues and leagues.

This was not the first time the Golden Company had to deal with miserable rain. Arya could see that after her first week with them. There was a discipline to their march, a tempo that would not waver no matter how much mud stuck to their boots. Arya had always thought herself someone that knew the roughness of the open roads, but the Company put her to shame.

Nymeria would run off into the forests during the day – or when the gray skies weren’t so dark and miserable to look upon. The Company was happier for it – their horses and donkeys didn’t care for the direwolf. Whenever Nymeria would come close, the horses would whine and the donkeys shudder in their steps. At night Nymeria would return with game in her mouth. Sometimes she would rush in with a hare in her jaws, on a few occasions she dragged into the camp with the neck of a deer. That would help stiffen the Company’s fear of the wolf – a cooked hare or some venison were always preferable to stiff rations.

The dragonroads helped. Arya had heard a thing or two about Old Valyria, how it was the greatest kingdom the world would ever see, that it boasted marvels that the maesters could only dream of. When she saw the dragonroads, Arya could believe them. She had ridden on the Kingsroad, and she thought that was a marvel. But the dragon roads were something else entire.

The dragon roads were raised paths of stone, and they were scattered across Essos. Some of them were broken remnants, only reaching so far before they were reduced to ruins, but many of them were as strong as ever. When the Golden Company marched along them, Arya could see how the water just slide off the stone. It had to be magic, or some wisdom of stonecraft that went beyond the Maesters. She wished Luwin was here, so that he could see it for himself.

 _He is back home in Winterfell, with Rickon and Bran. Bran is awake and well. I wonder what they will say, when they see Jon and Daenerys and their suckling babe?_ Rickon will find it a delight, no doubt. He won’t be the youngest Stark, and Bran would have nothing but questions for Jon’s time in Essos. She may could see Luwin cry as he wrapped his wrinkled hands around her. She tightened the reins around her destrier. _Each day we are closer. I’m coming, Jon._

The dragon roads would have made the journey an easy one, if it weren’t for the rain. Not all of the roads had been preserved since the Doom, and no doubt there have been more than a pair of short-minded commanders that destroyed some road for his campaign. When the Golden Company marched on the slick stones, it was easy. But once they got back onto the muddy paths to Volantis, it was a frustrating experience.

Arya had half hoped that the Captain-Commander would be like the Southron Lords, and keep a wide pavilion for himself when they made camp for the night. She would kill for a roaring fire and some hot food. But Myles Toyne, his title of Black Heart notwithstanding, made no use of wide tents. He slept on the same soft ground as the rest of his men. She respected that just as much as she hated him for it.

Somewhere between Myr and Volantis, they made camp under a wet groove of trees. Their leaves were thin, but long, and it made for a mostly dry site. The moist wood made it hard to get fires started in the camps, and many of the Company huddled together under wet canopies. The party of Myles Toyne managed to get a humble blaze started, and Arya was summoned to share it.

“Would be poor form to have a daughter of the Starks freeze under our watch.” Lysono Maar sat near the humble blaze, his smiles all serpentine, and not at all trusting. Arya found a place near the fire regardless.

Myles Toyne poked at the fire with a twig, shifting the leaves. “The rain has made this a hard march.”

“How long until we reach Volantis?”

“Ever the impatient one.” The Lyseni was amused.

Arya ignored the question. “Hard to say,” the Captain-General grunted. “I want to say no more than another week. We’re a week and a half out from Myr. Volantis is not Astapor – it’s not such a daunting journey.”

“But it is daunting,” spoke Harry Strickland, “all the same. Some of the men are already grumbling of the easy pay we abandoned.”

“You are not all of Westeros,” Arya stated. “Lysono is from Lys. I saw some men with black skin and coarse hair. They had to be Summer Islanders. Why are they in the Company? Bittersteel wanted to put a Blackfyre on the Iron Throne. What are their stakes in that?”

“Not all wander may be lost,” Lysono Marr said, “but many of them are. Lys was my home. Now I don’t have one.”

“The Golden Company is a call for those that have been thrown from their homes,” Harry Strickland said. “And with a conqueror’s blade, Westeros could be a new home for them. The pay _is_ fine. We do wear our treasures on us.” Arya had seen plenty of men with golden rings and bands, or skulls dipped in gold that hung from their armor.

“How eager are you to return to Winterfell?” Myles Toyne looked at her behind his scarred face.

“More than anything, to bring my brother and Daenerys Targaryen back.”

“We are no different. Some us were born across the Narrow Sea, had tasted the Westerosi air. But more of us were born into exile. We lived off of the stories woven by our forefathers and their forefathers. They told of us home, Arya Stark. This ground,” and his boots tapped at the soft earth, “is not home. And we would eat the real thing before the end.”

Arya looked at the commander of the Golden Company. “And Daenerys is the key?”

“She is Targaryen,” Myles Toyne said firmly. “The truest material. Oh, we could grab any boy from Lys and say that they are the blood of the dragon.”

“A fine compliment,” Lysono Marr smiled. “They say the Targaryen women are the prettiest things in the world. And the men even more so.”

“But with Daenerys, there is no doubt.” Arya Stark saw a flicker of a smile on Myles Toyne’s face. “The entire world knows who she is. She is a Targaryen.”

Arya was understanding why the Golden Company was racing for Astapor. “You put her on the Iron Throne, and she brings you home. Is that it?”

“Without question,” Myles Toyne said.

 _But why now? The Golden Company had to have known about the Targaryens. They were in exile for twenty years. What has changed? Was it her marriage? Or her getting with Jon’s child?_ Too many questions rolled around in her head. Arya could not find sleep that night. The soft ground meant her head sank through the blankets, and even then all she could do was think. Think on just what the Golden Company intended.

 _They never mentioned Jon. Daenerys this, Targaryen royalty that. But what would they do with Jon?_ They were a company of exiles and bastards. Maybe they wouldn’t mind putting Jon on the throne too. She tried to imagine him with a crown resting on his head, and she couldn’t. But she did think of Jon putting a sword through Joffrey’s heart, and that made her smile. When she imagined sticking Needle in his eyes, she couldn’t keep the grin from her face.

It was clearer the next day. The ground was still made soft and impressionable by the rain, but it wasn’t a mess of mud and twigs. Some rays of the sun managed to break through the grim clouds. If Myles Toyne counted his good fortune, he gave no show of it. The Golden Company marched just as hard as it did through the rain.

“There’s a reason he is the Black Heart,” said a rider with green hair. “He may be fair, but Gods help us, he drives a spear down our asses with every march.”

“Better down our asses than into our chests,” smirked a Summer Islander. “And better still, he always manages to get our spears into hearts of our enemies. A good exchange all around.”

“Say that to my feet,” grumbled a Tyroshi.

Sore feet or not, wet or dry, they marched all the same. One night they did not find enough trees to camp below. Most of the Company made do with their damp tents and bedrolls while the serjeants and commanders snuggled on ground that was less than wet. As before, Arya was invited among them. They always gave her a preferred seat, around their campfires, tented beneath dry canopies, fresh cuts of meat or rations that were not as dry as the rest. Arya enjoyed it in the moment, but come the morning she never failed to notice the disgruntled glances.

“What is the word on Volantis?” Arya asked with a mouth full of meat. It was a dry meal, compensated with an abundance of spices. Arya almost sneezed the first time she dug her teeth in. Nymeria was coiled around her, nibbling on a thin wisp of a bone.

“One day closer than yesterday,” the Black Heart responded. “It will be easier the closer we get. The Volantens preserved all of their dragon roads.”

“Our other half has surely nested around the city by now,” Harry Strickland said. He straightened his thin strands of hair. “We have received no messages by bird, hawk nor raven.”

“That could be good news,” Myles Toyne remarked. His grim tone suggested he didn’t believe a word of it.

“Or the worst kind,” Lysono Marr said.

“I have faith in Connington,” Myles said simply. “He and the boy will be waiting for us at Volantis. Of that I have no doubt.”

Arya wiped the meat from her mouth. “Boy? What are you on about? Is it Jon?”

The Captain-Commander chuckled as he shook his head. “Not your brother. There is more than one Targaryen still alive.”

“Another?” Her eyes must have gone wider than a beggar’s pan; the commanders of the Golden Company looked at her with glinting eyes. “You mean Viserys. That’s her brother, am I right?”

“Viserys has perished at the hands of the horse-lords,” Lysono Marr stated. “His corpse is food for the worms.”

“It is not the brother of Rhaegar that waits for us with Jon Connington.” Myles Toyne raised his head. “The rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms waits for us in Volantis. Aegon, the son of Rhaegar.”

The meat nearly fell from her mouth? “Aegon? The prince?” She shook her head at that. “No, no, none of that can be true. Everyone knows that Aegon is dead. He and his sister Rhaenys were…they were killed. Everyone knows that.”

“Rhaegar’s son lives,” Myles Toyne said firmly. “And he longs to join with his aunt.”

 

**THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE**

 

In the far distance, above the mountains, she could see the Harpy of Mereen, nestled atop the highest pyramid of the city, with the golden face of a woman and clawed feet. The harpy’s wings were so outstretched Dany wondered how much of the city was cast in shadows.

She would not know. Drogo had steered the Golden Horde far outside of the greatest of the slaving cities. Dealing with their perfumed ambassadors would only steal precious time that Khal Drogo needed. He had already wasted precious time feasting off of the Lhazareen. For all the offerings made by the sheep men, Dany had felt only shame on her part. They were poor enough, and the Golden Horde had drained the resources of the flock cities, and the only thing they received was the gift of being alive.

Mercenaries marched in tandem with the Dothraki, and Lhazareen Rams trailed behind them all. Khal Drogo had made the call for warriors and vagabonds, and not even some of the Lhazareen could hold off the call to war. The lure of adventure was too great, and the idea of bringing fire and sword to the Good Masters was too sweet to ignore. She wondered what fire burned in some of these Lhazareen, who had to deal with being enslaved by Slaver’s Bay for generations.

The Lhazareen that followed the Horde were united only in how much they wanted to bring down the Masters of Astapor. They were dressed and garbed in a dozen different ways, and no two of them looked alike. It was a rag tag faction if there ever was one. But they all had the horn of a ram tied to them, or tucked into the sash around their waists, and so they have been referred to as the rams. A ram, at the very least, can fight back.

 _You will not get your vengeance through Khal Drogo. But I pray there is another, younger and stronger, who will give it to you._ Dany wondered if she could beseech them. When Drogo perished, there would surely be a sundering of the Golden Horde. Anything could happen then – such as rising khals that would wish to make sure that Drogo’s son never breathed. She may need swords that were not the arakhs of her khas. “Rakharo,” she commanded, “seek out the sons of Lhazar. Tell them I would speak with their leader.”

“Khaleesi, the Ram men have none they would name leader.”

“Then find me someone they respect. I would share words.”

She was garbed in a fine dress that bared her shoulders and rang with bronze medallions when Tareoh Neh Khaluk was brought before her. The man was dressed in a leather cuirass, and Dany could see the scars that curled down his arms and neck. Wrapped across half of his face was a red and green rag. He must have survived a dozen different battles. _If he wasn’t a son of Lhazar, Drogo may have taken a liking to him._

The man had a sly smile on his face when he entered her tent. “A rare day when a horselord summons a sheep for anything less a beheading.”

“You are no sheep,” Dany said. She had seen many of the Lhazareen, and they had a soft look in their dark eyes. Tareoh’s had a spark in them. “You are Tareoh Neh Khaluk, but you have another name.”

The man nodded. “Some have taken to calling me the Black Goat.”

“After the god of Qohor?”

“After the God of Death. He has three heads and six horns, and is the enemy of the Great Shepherd.” He crossed his arms against his chest. “If it means my enemies are more likely to beg for mercy than put a sword at my throat, I’ll take the title.”

“And why do you wrap your head like that?”

“The result of a bargain between a khal and myself. He took my eye, and I took his life.”

“You are not a sheep,” Dany decided. “And yet you are still Lhazareen. The Dothraki have pillaged your people for as long as you have existed. Why further my husband’s cause?”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend for a day. The Masters of Slaver’s Bay have fettered the sons of Lhazar for as long as Old Ghis existed. If Drogo does what he has promised, then by tomorrow we will only have one enemy instead of two.”

Dany leaned forward in her seat. “And what are you, Black Goat of Lhazar? My enemy or my friend?”

Tareoh smiled. “That depends on why we are having this conversation.”

“Khaleesi,” Rakahro said, “you don’t need to deal with this sheep fucker. He may have survived battles, and perhaps even killed a Khal,” he said with doubt, “but your khas are all great riders.”

She turned to the man, and filled her voice with fire. “I am Khaleesi, and what I do is my own. You are here to protect me, Rakahro, not to decide on my behalf. The next time you speak out of turn, you will be guarding me from outside of my tent.” Rakharo bowed his head and muttered an apology. She placed a protective hand over her swollen belly. “Tareoh Neh Khaluk, I am with child, and I do not trust the men that my husband has surrounded himself with. By the time Drogo launches his siege of Astapor, I may very well have given birth.”

“May the Great Shepherd watch over his flock.” He spoke the verse in a reverent tone.

“I need more than the Great Shepard. I need men that I can trust. Many of the Rams have shoddy equipment. My sworn sword, Jon Snow, has noticed many of them are filled are cracked and worn.”

“The Lhazar Hills have produced sons with more passion than sense.” The man sighed. “Not many are like me. I have fought under a dozen companies. I knew of the Second Sons, the Windblown, and even fought under the banner of the Golden Company for a spell.” He padded at a golden arm ring. “I know how to care for my arms, and how to get weapons worth a damn.”

“And you know of men of worth?”

“Of course,” he grinned. “Khaleesi, one does not live long without placing your trust in two things. Your sword, and the men at your side.”

“And how much trust would you place for the sellswords my husband has hired?”

Tareoh spat on the ground. “There’s my trust. I wouldn’t fight by any of their sides if I had a say in it. There’s a reason they are all that are left after Myr, Tyrosh and Lys got their pretty hands on the companies of worth. My shit and piss are worth more.”

“Can you gather men who are worth more than your shit and piss?”

“Of course,” the man said with pride. “I know a few of worth. But I imagine you want more than a few. I can tell those few to find men that they know of worth.”

“And tell me, Tareoh Neh Khaluk,” Dany asked, “how many men of worth can your trusted few give me?”

“Three-hundred. But if this is a bargain, I would know the terms.”

 _The man is a mercenary_. The man was bartering from the minute he entered her tent. He knew she cared for her son, was asking questions about the mercenaries. He boasted of his achievements and showed off his scars to back up his words. “I need to make sure my child is safe when the battle is done.”

“You put no faith in your husband.” There was no hesitation in his statement.

“I put faith in men I can trust.” _I trust Ser Jorah and Jon has my heart._ “ I can give your men weapons and armor. I will have Ser Jon Snow and Ser Jorah Mormont ensure they have steel and iron of worth.”

“A wonderful gift.”

“I can ensure you ride at the head of the column, instead of following in the tracks of the Golden Horde. You will be given more than the scraps of the litter.”

“We do tire of eating roasted dogs.”

“And I promise Fire and Blood upon the enemies of Lhazar. I promise this by Old Valyria. I promise this by my glorious son that is eager to meet the world. I promise this by the blood of my father, who was slain before I was born.”

“Whatever may come of your husband?”

“Whatever may come,” she promised.

The man smiled. “Then it will be done. I will get you your men, Khaleesi.” The man turned to leave, his gray mane of hair flowing behind him. She saw tufts of it slip through the rag.

“I would have one more question, Black Goat.” The man turned, just as his hand was about to slip through the flap of the tent. “Why would you swear to me? Promises are like the wind. Everything could be a ruin on the morrow. I could…” She could not finish the sentence.

“Die on the bed? Because I have grown tired of gold, when my home is set to flame by slavers. And my great mother told me of dragons, and the brave men that rode them. It’s not a good idea to cross either of them, Daenerys Targaryen.” She saw his smile from across the tent. “Are we done here?”

“Until you bring me the men of worth,” Dany raised her chin. “I will send Ser Jorah Mormont to you on the morrow, to fetch you the weapons you need.” It was only a moment after Tareoh Neh Khaluk left that she saw her riders look at her. “You have words,” she sighed. She leaned back into her seat. “So say them.”

They all came at once. They asked why she would put more trust in a Ram than in a horse. They insisted that none of her khas would betray her, despite how it was Khal Drogo that commanded her khas and not Daenerys. Khal Drogo would be displeased, they insisted, that Khal Drogo would not be half as angry as they claimed so long as his son rode inside of her.

“I have heard your concerns. Rakharo, I do this because nothing is certain. Jhogo, I have bought the Lhazareen because I can. Aggo, you have said that no Khaleesi has done what I have done. I say that no Khaleesi has been Daenerys Stormborn, none who was Khaleesi of the Golden Horde, who holds as proud of a son as I do in her womb. So I will do as I have done. Now leave me, and bring me Doreah. My son weighs heavy on my feet, and I need her tender fingers.”

 

**THE WOLFGUARD**

 

They were to meet in the shadows of the Arsenal, the massive fortress that safeguarded the ports of the city. “A war galley can be built in a day here,” explained Talrios Fregar. The man was Tormo’s younger brother, and was his opposite in every way. Where Tormo was broad, Talrios was slim, Tomor was dark of hair while Talrios’ hair was golden, Tormo cleanly cut while Talrios had a wild pair of whiskers that raced down his face.

And when Tormo Fregar took up the mantle of Sealord, Talrios would be his First Sword. In so many ways Jory saw Robb and Jon in them both. Those two were each other’s greatest rival and companion, the black to the other’s white, and their most trusted friend. _And one was made king, while the other may made a child that could have been a prince or princess._

Winterfell. He must bring them to Winterfell. That was all he could think as they passed beneath the Arsenal. They were aboard one of Tormo’s swift cogs. The _Enduring Eye_ was not attended to by merchant sailors, but by sellswords. Jory could hear the clanging of thin steel along with the cries of gulls and the salty air pulling at the sail.

Lord Stark never said he was to sail under a patriot’s flag, but here he was. Jory wondered just how many more twist and turns he would need to take before he was home again. He longed for the smell of pines.

 _Lord Stark is dead_. In the nights when he could find sleep, and not be kept awake by the rocking waves, Jory dreamt of his lord. All he knew was that Lord Stark had admitted to a treason and lost his head for it. _Lies, lies, lies and lies._ The words would repeat a thousand times in his dreams. It was a lie that Eddard Stark was a traitor. It was a lie that Jory could have done anything. It was a lie that he should have left. He was the captain of the guard. He should have stayed.

He had to follow his Lord’s command.

He should have broken that command.

They had sailed past another war galley that was being built. As exposed as it was, Jory could see the inside of the hull. It looked like some great beast that was stranded ashore. Jory had heard tales of great beasts that ruled the sea. These leviathans were supposed to be larger than any ship. But Jory doubted anything could match the size or scale of any of the galleys in Tormo’s armada.

The magisters and bankers were the first to arrive; they were the last. “The Sealord waits on no man,” Tormo Fregar had explained. Jory could see the doubt on Harwin and Alyn. Maybe that is true, but Tormo Fregar was not the Sealord just yet, and the magisters of Braavos may very well decide to remove that title.

The man was proud though, Jory could give him that. Tormo Fregar wrapped himself in a gray cloak over a purple tunic, and hung over his neck emeralds and sapphires. Stitched over his heart were two strong hands breaking a chain. One wouldn’t need to think for long what motivated Tormo and his men.

The magisters’ barge threw down a line of rope, and they climbed over the rails. Jory, Alyn and Harwin trailed behind Tormo Fregar and his brother. They were led by men dressed in bright flashes of velvet below the decks of the barge. Before he took his first steps on the stairs, Jory looked up. Even in the midday sky he could see it – the burning comet, red hot and bleeding, cutting through the gray blue of the Braavosi horizon. For months it lingered, and for months it remained.

_Wish me luck._

There were three waiting for them in the captain’s chambers. One was a man with a firmly cut beard dressed in a gray robe, with a necklace of keys hanged from his neck. No doubt he was one of the representatives from the Iron Bank. Talrios said there would be no doubt a banker would be in attendance. Another had a curled mustache and a tunic in red, gold and blue. To their right sat a man in a crimson robe, and the edges of a tattoo inked in an ancient glyph were visible on his neck. He had to be one of those Red Priests.

“You seem to have us outnumbered,” said the man with the keyed necklace. They chimed like bells when he turned.

“I am a man of my word,” answered Tormo Fregar. “I have brought those that I trust. Just as you have, Noho Dimittis.”

“The difference,” spoke the man in the curled mustache in a dour tone, “is that we are well known to the sons of Braavos. The trading cogs of Teyo Arekitis are spread across the known world. Who are these companions that sit beside you and your brother?”

Jory stepped forward. “I am Jory Cassel, commander of Eddard Stark’s houseguard.”

Teyo Arekitis bowed his head. “Even as far as Braavos, Lord Stark’s repute as a man of honor was well known. The world mourns his passing.” There was little sympathy in his tone, but Jory smiled all the same.

“If his son shows half the patience that his father was said to possess, the war will come to a swift end.” As Noho Dimittis leaned back into his seat, the keys rang their tunes. “The Iron Bank looks forward to settling terms with the independent Kingdom in the North.”

Jory forced a smile. “I am certain King Robb will prove an honored patron. When the day is won, naturally.” The Iron Banker smiled.

Servants drew out chairs. As they took their seat, the man in the crimson robes coughed into a fist. “And I hope when victory is his, King Robb will allow servants of the Red God to bring the blazing words to his people.”

“I am certain he may allow a few, although the North is old. We have our gods, and they don’t take well to fires.”

The Red Priest laughed, although in amusement or in mockery Jory could not say. “And just how much do you know of the Red Priests, Jory Cassel?”

“I know your night songs do a fine job of keeping me up at night.” The Red Priest frowned at that.

“Enough,” Tormo Fregar cut in. “I need more ships.”

Teyo Arekitis smiled. “Why, Tormo, all know that your family is one of the richest in Braavos. Your forefathers practically made an industry out of freeing slaves and using their loyalties to bolster their coffers. You have no shortage of coin.”

“I don’t need coin. I need a writ expressing I can purchase more ships. I have nearly thirty galleys in my armada.”

“An impressive amount,” praised Noho Dimittis. “And all without a single loan from the Iron Bank.”

“The limit is thirty-two owned by a single enterprise.”

“Yes, all to ensure one man does not control and dominate Braavos. Checks and balances, Tormo.” Teyo Arekitis rasped the table. “Checks and balances.”

Tormo Fregar ground his teeth. “What is to stop me from overstepping those bounds?”

The Red Priest leaned forward. “The people would rise up. They would declare you a tyrant. They would deny you with every breath.”

“Deny me?” Tormo growled. “They exhale me. The young hunger for the blood of the slavers. Babes demand for their fathers to sail against Volantis. The old demand that the young _remember_ the tenants on which Braavos was built.”

“You think we are pleased with slavery?” Teyo Arekitis tightened his fist so hard it almost went pale. “That we rest easy at night knowing another is in fetters?”

“You sure look comfortable enough,” Talrios smiled. “Are those cushions under your asses?”

Noho Dimittis did not take the bait. The man’s face was a small wall. “Braavos wages war just as often on its galleys as it does on the bargaining table. The people may demand for war, but they will hate it when their taxes are raised. They will hate it when they need to wait in lines for loaves of bread. The war you want is expensive.”

Tromo Fregar gave the Iron Banker a hard look. “The war is necessary. The Sealord is supposed to fight slavery in all of its forms.”

Teyo Arekitis raised his brow. “Ferrego Antaryon is Sealord.”

“Ferrego Antaryon is a dying waste of a man that will not survive the moon. My name is on the lips of ever soul in Braavos.”

“You can be denied,” Noho Dimittis said in an iron tone. “You can be denied the title. You can be denied the support of Braavos. You can be stranded in whatever foreign port you lay siege to, alone and isolated. You will be strangled by the weight of your actions.”

“And what will you do,” Tormo Fregar said behind a clenched jaw, “when you are drowning in the words of the people? I wonder how smug you would look when they fill the streets.”

“We can afford that,” the Iron Banker sighed. “But imagine if we throw our full weight behind you and fail, Tormo. You sail upon one of the Free Cities – Lys or Myr, and they all rise against us. A worse coalition than the Triarchy ever was. Or you move against Volantis herself. And our sails burn in the seas, the bulk of our able men drown in the waves. Us suing for peace is the best possible outcome should that happen.”

“Braavos would burn,” the Red Priest warned. “And the fires wouldn’t be in honor of the Lord of Light. His wisdom wouldn’t be granted to any of the invaders on that day.”

“You need me,” Tormo stated. “You think Khal Drogo will be content with just Astapor? He will turn his eyes toward Yunkai and Meereen, and after he takes those he will look west. How long until his Golden Horde comes for Braavos?”

“We do need a strong Sealord,” Teyo Arekitis nodded. “One with a truly sharp mind. Khal Drogo is a threat to all of the Free Cities. But we know so little. How strong is his army? What weapons of war does he wield? How fast can he move? Can he even convince his men to march onto ships? We don’t have an answer to any of his questions. Let him take Astapor, and all the rest of Ghis. Gives us time to prepare.”

“One enemy would fall, and the other would grow.”

“And we will be wiser for it,” the Magister said firmly. “Wisdom trumps strength. We cannot deny the people their Sealord, but we can decide if it is an empty title or not.”

“We will deny you your thirty-third ship,” Noho Dimittis said. He thumbed the grooves of one of his keys. “Thirty-two are more than enough for one patriot to defend the harbors.”

They were silent as they sailed back to port. Tormo Fregar griped the rails as he looked in quiet thought over the waters of Braavos. Talrios was by his side, leaning against the port. Finally, the eventual First Sword leaned towards the future Sealord. “What will you do?”

“How long until we have enough provisions and men?”

Meero Syreese leaned in. The seneschal flicked through the papers he held to his chest. “Two weeks after the Arsenal finishes construction on the thirty-second ship.”

“Then we sail,” Tormo Fregar decided. “And pray that Daenerys Targaryen labors long enough for us to find her.”

 

**A KNOWING MAN**

 

They were all waiting for him when No-Eyes entered the tent. He could feel the warmth of the fire pits, and goose prickles raced up his arm. Slaver’s Bay was hot and dry in the day, but at night he could feel the cold dig into his bones. He welcomed the heat. He could hear the near silent breathing of Khal Drogo. Even as a boy, his taking of air was a silent thing. “You are late, priest.” He growled, but there was a hint of humor in his words.

“A knowing man is never late,” No-Eyes smiled. “He knows precisely when he must come.” No-Eyes felt the soft fur of the lion carpet slip between his toes. He felt Jon Snow offer his scarred hand, and he was directed to the ground. The Andal didn’t need to do that, but the man was all courtesies. _Let him think he helped a blind man._

“Let us begin,” Drogo decided. “If we keep at this pace, we will be upon Astapor in three weeks.”

“Say one thing for us Dothraki,” said Cohollo behind his broken teeth, “say that we ride fast. Your son will be born within the halls of Astapor, Drogo.”

“If the Astapori had not already set flame to their woods,” Jon cautioned. “It would be a slow siege without any way to pierce the city’s walls, and I don’t think you Dothraki have the patience for it.”

No-Eyes had felt Qotho’s anger before he slapped his hand on the table. “Watch your words, Andal.”

“I had the Andal on my council because of his words.” No-Eyes could imagine the embarrassed look on Qotho’s face…and it was more pleasing than he would care to admit. “I don’t need a man that sucks at my teat. I want hard truths. Speak, Jon Snow.”

“If we don’t reach Astapor before the woods are put to cinders, it could take a long time before you claim it. I have heard some sieges taking years. Stannis Baratheon held off the forces of the Reach for an entire year. It was said he feasted off of sewer rats and dog meat, but he outlasted a force six times the size of Storm’s End.”

“It won’t come to that,” Cohollo said stubbornly. “We have ridden fast and true. You have sent several khas ahead of the Horde, to put to flame and sword any that would spread word of our coming. None south of Vaes Sash shall reach Astapor in time for them to prepare.”

“They are slow, those Good Masters.” Haggo’s words were spoken with care. “Even if they do reach word, how long before they realize we need timber for our weapons of war?”

“Very quickly,” Jon cautioned. “I do not know how long Astapor has thrived, but I have heard of these Unsullied. They made slaves into fearful weapons of war. They know how much we need the wood of their trees.”

“If the worst comes,” Drogo breathed, “how long can we sustain a siege?”

“There are still whispers of Toqoro,” No-Eyes said. The Khalakka’s ghost had haunted the Horde for near on a year now. Many whisper that of how the Great Stallion will curse Khal Drogo for what he did. _No Khal shall kill another’s son._ Drogo broke one of the most sacred of edicts. “And many remember Vaes Dothrak. If you linger too long in a siege, their ghosts will kill your Golden Horde.”

“Another would rise,” Drogo said. “And take my men with him.”

“A siege would be your ruin,” No-Eyes declared. He wished he could see the look on Drogo, if only to see the truth in the man’s eyes. _Do you doubt my words? You know my soul, Drogo._

Qotho slammed his fist onto the table. “Then we shall take the battle to them.”

“How will you do that when they are behind their walls?” No-Eyes could almost taste the laugh that nearly escaped Jon’s lips. _Be careful, Andal. It would be a close match between you and the bloodrider._

“There are always cracks,” Qotho said stubbornly. That man never did have anything that could be considered cunning.

“So you would fight on the streets?” No-Eyes sighed. “Our strength has always laid on the open field. You know the Unsullied would favor the tightness of the alleys. They know the city, the twists and cracks of the roads. We are strangers to Astapor, but they were forged in it.”

“What does a blind man know of war?”

“More than you. None so blind as those that have eyes and refuse to see.”

“Enough,” Drogo said. He always got annoyed whenever No-Eyes would quote verses. “Can we push faster than the two weeks?”

Cohollo scratched at his ruined cheek. “Perhaps. Not likely. Unless you would have us lose horses, this is the fastest we will ever be. Your wife’s elevation of the Lhazareen does us no favors.”

Qotho grunted. “What a fruitless endeavor. What use can Rams and sheep make out of weapons? Those Andals of hers are running from end to the next finding steel for them. Steel!”

“A Khaleesi has the right,” Haggo reminded in soft tones, “to uplift warriors of her own choosing.”

“From a _khas_ ,” Qotho seethed. “Not from outriders! Especially not from those sheep!”

“Those same sheep that ride with us against the same enemy?” Jon Snow raised a cup of wine to his lips, but there was a haste to it. _Better to drink his anger away, than to let it spill from his lips._ No-Eyes himself was part sheep, on part of his mother. Should he be defending them as well? _No, I left behind Lhazar when I swore that oath to Bharbo. I was tricked and fooled, but an oath is an oath._

“My wife can keep her goats,” Drogo declared. Qotho leaned back in his chair, and No-Eyes could feel the uneasy acceptance in his breathing. _The man hates any opposition, even if it comes from his Khal._ He was thankful that the man was a bloodrider and not a ko. Qotho would be far more dangerous with men rallying behind his arakh. “I hear three-hundred have sworn themselves to her.”

“It is true, Khal of Khals,” Jon said with respect. “She enlisted the aid of a man named Tareoh Neh Kheluk.”

“The Black Goat,” Cohollo muttered. “That one has seen many battles, and has the scars to prove it.”

“Through him, three-hundred men fight for Daenerys Targaryen?”

“And not for her husband?” Qotho’s words were all fire and accusation.

“Of course they do.” No-Eyes could imagine the smile on Jon’s face. “Does a wife not fight for the cause of her husband?”

“Qotho,” Drogo spoke with iron tones. “Do well not to accuse my wife of treachery. You are the blood of my blood, but such blood can be purged.” Qotho said nothing. A khal does not kill his bloodriders. They all shared a single life, and a bloodrider only lived long enough to avenge their khal. But if there was a man that would break from that tradition, it would be Drogo.

“So you would let these Rams be at the same side as your wife’s khas?” Cohollo always spoke with more care than any of the other bloodriders, but his disapproval could not be hidden.

Drogo snorted. “Let the Khaleesi do as she pleases. She wants to be attended to by sheep with fangs? Let her. She is carrying my son inside of her. She is afforded some amusements.” No-Eyes could hear Qotho tighten his fists pale. That man exemplified the very worst of the Dothraki – all fury, hating everything that was not astride on a horse. “Send word that the camp is to be broken at first light. We ride hard.”

“It will be done, blood of my blood,” Cohollo said with respect.

Drogo dismissed them with a wave. Or No-Eyes assumed as such – the man always preferred to speak with his body rather than with his words. He felt Jon’s hands grasp at his shoulders. “I am not so old, nor so blind, that I need you to lift me up, Andal.” The words were harsh, but No-Eyes could not keep the humor from them.

“Afford a Westerosi his sense of honor, Ezzolat.”

No-Eyes smiled. “Very well. We’ll play this mummer’s game.” He leaned in close. “And it does give us the opportunity to talk.”

“Talk?” No-Eyes could hear the curiosity in Jon’s tone. “What is on your mind, Ezzolat?”

 _We could talk about the affections you hold for the Khaleesi. The small moments that you share that go unnoticed by most, but not by me. How I could turn you over to the Khal, but I won’t. I did name you friend, after all._ “Hezzare has been reclusive as of late.”

“He has,” Jon said. No-Eyes didn’t miss the hint of pleasure in Jon’s voice. “The man must be too busy counting gold.”

“Or preparing something,” No-Eyes suggested. “He is more than Khal Drogo’s taxman. He is the most constant of companions. Hezzare is the Khal’s right hand man, his most trusted advisor. He, more than anything else, was the hand that struck down the Khalakka.”

He could hear Jon slow in his steps. “From the moment I met him, at Daenerys’ wedding, I knew he was not to be trusted.”

“What gave him away?”

“Too much perfume,” Jon laughed.

 _The perfume, and a great deal more._ Even when he was a young slave brought before Khal Bharbo, No-Eyes felt there was something uneasy about Hezzare. Even then, every word spoken by the Ghiscari had another meaning. He was always probing.

“Was the Khalmai much the same? Of everyone in this Golden Horde, only she had the balls to speak her mind to him.”

No-Eyes smiled. “Yes, she was his greatest champion. No wonder he waged war on the Dosh Khaleen for her sake. Drogo would not be parted with her.”

“Daenerys often remarked that her good-mother was a woman of considerable strengths.” There was a hint of admiration in Jon’s voice. “And then she died.”

“Yes she did,” No-Eyes sighed. He had known Veranii even before she was heavy with Drogo. _Your eyes do not make you blind, Lhazareen_. Her words had marked his soul for so many years. She had passed Drogo into his arms. _Is he not ferocious?_ and No-Eyes had to admit that he was. Even as a bloody babe, Drogo had a fierce grip.

And then she died. The khalasar insisted that she died from natural causes, that she had seen everything that a khalmai could ever need to see. They had not known her. A woman like her would not pass quietly away in the night. No doubt that the Pale Stallion would need to wrestle with her before they rode off into the Night Lands.

Even so, the Khalmai passed quietly in her sleep. Hezzare had been attending to her, and he insisted that as so. Veranii treated the slave as a second son, one denied to her by the Mother in the Skies. Hezzare was not Dothraki, but he was treasured by Drogo. And Veranii denied neither of her sons nothing. The Ghiscari was educated by tutors from across the continent, in everything from linguistics to medicine. He did all he could for his mother, if there was anything to do at all. The Black Goat came for all.

_So why do I feel doubt scratch at me?_

No-Eyes slipped from Jon’s grasp. The war camp was a broth of Dothraki, the Rams of Lhazar and legions of mercenaries. He could hear the barks of feral dogs in the distance, waiting with impatience for corpses to feast upon. When they first marched from Vaes Sash, the barking of the dogs were like thunder. But as the weeks passed, and as more of the dogs either died or left for greener pastures, the barks were more like a whimper.

But as No-Eyes kicked at a thin mutt, and heard the dog whimper and scamper away, he thought they were no less than a nuisance.

He smelled Hezzare’s tent before he heard the clinking of steel. Drogo had given the man his own personal guard, but even though they were more loyal to the Khal than to Hezzare, No-Eyes had to be careful.

“Hold, blind one.” No-Eyes hear one of the guards planting his spear into the ground. “Hezzare is not here. What business do you have?”

 _Yes, but not with either of you._ No-Eyes listened for a moment. Someone in leathers had just passed by. He could hear the wind pull at the flap of tents. There were ways to put men into a deep slumber without killing them, and they were known to all that walked the Path. In a few swift movements the guards fell to the ground.

He dragged them into the tent. He muttered a verse to himself. _I know the path, and the path knows me._ No-Eyes had to be quick here. The guards would slumber for quite a while. He doubt any would be able to wake them. When Hezzare would find the men, an alarm would be raised. Without question. No-Eyes had to be out before that.

The distinct scent of incense hung in the air. Hezzare was praying to monstrous gods of his people before he left on whatever business that held him now. _Be held there all day, if you would be so kind._ He felt his way around the room. He could know when a thing of flesh and bone was near him – he could hear them, feel the wind of their coming – but with cold and lifeless objects he was in the dark just as much as any other blind man.

His fingers grazed against inkwells, quills with parrot feathers, an iron scale, small leather pouches filled with coins from the Free Cities, small stone idols carved into monstrous shapes, letters, parchments and scrolls. _Was I a fool? There is nothing here._ But then he felt the smoothed wood of a chest bound in iron. When he found the latch, the chest whispered a groan as it opened. _Could I find something here?_ His fingers felt the contents – iron coins and velvet, a ribbon, soft fabrics from across the continent, vials of perfume.

_Nothing. It is a desert of jewels and baubles._

But then his fingers felt something, the lightest change in texture from the rest of the wood. For a moment No-Eyes considered it a folly of the mind, but he _knew_ that there was something. He pressed down.

Click.

He heard the wood snap open. He felt with his hands how the chest had sprung a drawer. Frantically, his fingers scurried to the drawer. There were no textured finishes here – the wood was all rough and prickly. His fingers found a leather pouch, lighter than air. He gave it a small shake, expecting to hear something jiggle within. It was silent. _What could be so empty that would warrant a secret drawer?_

No-Eyes unlaced the pouch and pulled it wide. He dipped his finger in, expecting to find only disappointment. Instead he felt something powdery. He rubbed his fingers together – it was lighter than sand, whatever it was. He sniffed his fingers, and couldn’t smell a thing. The powder was like a shadow, so thin and light one could hardly notice it at all.

With some hesitation, he dabbed his fingers onto his tongue. For a moment he tasted nothing – then revulsion, a horrid and bitter taste. He more gagged than spat. _I know this taste_. It wasn’t some perfume or powder. It went by a few dozen names – Selipytse in Ib, the Choking Death in the Free Cities, the Sure Death of Qaarth and its true name from Asshai must forever remain unsaid. But most of the world knew it as the Aching Death.

“The Aching Death,” he whispered. He knew then what it was that he found. No-Eyes tightened the pouch and slipped it up his sleeve. He locked the drawer back in place and rushed through the flap of Hezzare’s tent.


	9. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Horde arrives at Astapor. Arya finds Aegon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.chaosinferred.com/creative/asoiaf/dragons/9-ghosts/

**IX**

**GHOSTS**

 

**THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE**

 

Hezzare screamed as he was dragged into the tent. Night had fallen over the camp, and they were all there. Drogo’s bloodriders, Cohollo, Qotho and Haggo, stood behind him with their arakhs; Jon and No-Eyes sat in the front on seats of cushioned horse leather. Drogo was above them all, on an extravagant carved chair offered from Qohor, lion furs rolling off of the wooden arms. And Dany was at his side, looking down on the man that Drogo had called his brother for all of his life.

The guard in the growling mask pushed Hezzare to the ground, and his knees cut into the ground. The man’s hair was a black tangled mess, and Dany could see the roughness of his skin where sweat had wiped away his blush. Dany could not smell any of his perfumes, only the man’s cold sweat and his fear.

Hezzare looked up to Drogo with shaken eyes. Dany could see how swollen his cut lip was. “Drogo.” His voice was hoarse and sore. “What is this?”

“We are here to discuss your treasons,” answered Cohollo. Drogo said nothing as he looked at Hezzare with a mask of bronze flesh and eyes as dark as charred game. Cohollo dug into his vest and pulled out a small leather pouch. Dany’s throat clutched at the sight of it. _The slow death. The poisons!_ She did not let the fear spread to her face. She told herself that she was the blood of the dragon.

“What treasons could be in a leather pouch?” Despite how swollen his face was, Hezzaere smiled. “Perhaps it is the taxes that Drogo hates so?”

Drogo did not stir from his seat. No-Eyes stepped forward with confidence rarely afforded to blind men. “This is the Aching Death, distilled from the Qwinting Shrooms in the mazes of Lorath. It is an unsuspecting poison. It is slow, it is patient, it takes months to rob life from the victim. But when it does so, it looks as natural as a death can be.”

“You think I killed the Khalmai.”

“You were the last to see her.” Drogo rose from his seat, and Dany had to be honest and say he looked every bit the conqueror he designed himself to be. He wore a cloak of lion fur, and paws clung to his shoulders. His bronze flesh gleamed in the light of the torches. He looked immense and terrible. “For months you have tended to her. Always you would send the slaves away, so it would be only you and Mother. Our mother’s demise fit the poison that was found in your chambers.”

“I have countless poisons in my deposits. How am I to protect you from them if I am ignorant to how they work?”

“No,” said the blind priest. “But there was another. Doreah, could you step forward?”

Dany could feel the beating in her heart as Doreah left her side. She bowed her head, her bright and golden hair falling from her brow. “How can I serve the Khal of Khals?” Her Dothraki was clumsy, but her tone was dutiful and full of respect.

“How did Hezzare acquire the poisons?”

“Many a night, Hezzare sought me for his bed. He said he loved the smell of my golden hair.” There was a small rumble of chuckles from the bloodriders. “And he claimed that the pillow servants of Lys also knew of poisons, should another pay more gold than their clients.”

“And did he claim right?”

“He did,” Doreah said with a raised head. “He said he needed poisons. Why he did not say.” Dany could see a flicker of confusion on Drogo’s face. Doreah was speaking just as much clumsy Dothraki as the elegance of the Common Tongue. When No-Eyes could spare a moment, he would whisper into her husband’s ear. “I always thought it was to serve you, Khal of Khals. I never would have helped him if I knew what he intended.”

“And what did he intend?” It was Drogo who spoke, and his voice was forged in an iron tone. “What did the brother I love want with your poisons?”

“To kill your mother.” And then she looked at Hezzare, who appeared so weak and helpless with his bruised lip. “And to kill you. Have you not felt the weakness, my Khal, not even for a moment? A rush of breath when you felt as strong as a mountain, small coughs where once you felt mightier than a lion?”

“She provided the poisons,” Qotho said.

“This is absurd!” Hezzare rose to his feet, before he was pushed back down. His head hit the ground, his dark hair brushing against his face. “Drogo! Our wise father brought me into your house! We played together, grew up together! Have I not consoled you? Have we not laughed and shared mare wine together?”

“Gag his mouth!” shouted one. “Tear out his traitor tongue!” another demanded. “Fill his mouth with gold and silver!” Outcries and protests filled the tent, Dothraki men full of a primal rage.

“ENOUGH!” Drogo roared out like a thunderclap. No one spoke for a moment, save for the flickering heat of the braziers. “Hezzare was the brother chosen for me. If his life should depend on his words, they shall be heard.” Drogo’s eyes were focused on Hezzare. “Speak, brother.”

Hezzare straightened himself, shaking his head to loosen the dark strands of hair from his face. He looked bolder, more sure, now. His brown eyes were like darkly pebbles; steadfast and certain. “You listened to No-Eyes, who is so certain that none could lie to him. And it is true that ability is why Father brought him whenever he met with his ko. But that was years ago, Drogo. Is he not older now? Has his skills not lessened with age?”

“Watch yourself Hezzare.” No-Eyes was nothing if not prideful. He would have said more, but Drogo raised up his hand.

Hezzare pressed on. “Doreah says she got the poison for me. It’s true that I bedded her. She had a sweet enough cunt for it.” Dany could see some of the men grin amusingly. It filled Dany with a soft rage. “But is it not so convenient for I have a poison just resting in my tent? Like I would be so addled!”

“And who would benefit from such a ploy?” No-Eyes accused. “Who would want to see you dead?”

“I know the one,” Hezzare said. “The Khaleesi and her sworn sword.” Protests were raised around them, men shouted and arakhs shook at the hips. Daenerys could feel her son kicking in fear. _No. He could not know. Could Viserys have said something?_ “Have none of you questioned how Daenerys Targaryen spent her time behind closed doors? Who is she with when not with our beloved Khal?”

“Are you suggesting the Khaleesi poisoned the Khalmai?” Cohollo looked towards Khal Drogo, concern beating in his eyes.

“I’m saying that she has been fucking Jon Snow! Is she not quick to summon him, even before that of the riders of her khas? When her brother was murdered, how long did she mourn for him? Perhaps because he discovered the truth of she had him put to grass?”

Dany could hear her own heartbeat. She felt a hundred eyes look unto her. Drogo was staring at her, his dark eyes focused. _Say something. You are the blood of the dragon. He was wrong about the poisons. Use that._ But she could not find that any words would come to her lips.

“Drogo.” Jon stepped forward and approached the Khal. Jon bent his knees and drew out a dagger. A dozen hands reached for their arakhs before Jon placed the sharp edge to his throat. “Khal of Khals,” Jon said with respect. “I have served you. Did I not save your life on the battlefield? You saved me from the hakkar. I would have more than scars on my arm if not for you. You sat me at your table, fed me from your carvings, something that even my own Lord Father denied me. What kind of man would I be that would turn on you?”

Qotho scowled. “You are with the Khaleesi far too often, even for a rider in her khas.”

“I swore my sword to her, as you swore your arakhs to the Khal. If I have not been summoned by the Khal, or am with my Ezzolat, I serve her. It is no different. Drogo, did I not counsel you against killing the khalakka? Does the same man that insisted on the boy’s death now throw accusations at my feet?”

No-Eyes looked to Drogo. “Hezzare insists that I am weak. Would you say the same, Drogo? Do you look upon me and say there is a man addled by his age?”

“If I give you doubts, Drogo, say the word.” Jon tightened the grip on the knife. “I will do the deed. Here and now.”

Drogo stared at Jon. With just a nod, Jon would be dead. Dany felt a coldness crawl through her. Drogo’s face was a mask of dark eyes and bronzed flesh. _Oh gods, do not take Jon. Do not take him from me. You have taken my father, my beautiful mother, and my glorious brother. Even Viserys was taken from me, the brother that protected me for years and years. Do not take my Jon from me._ Could she live without his soft touches, the small smiles that he saved for her alone?

“I do not doubt you, Andal. Put that damn knife away.”

Jon almost looked relieved. He slipped the knife back into his belt. Jon did not look at her, but she saw the flicker of a smile on his face. _We are mummers in a play of death._

No-Eyes looked to the Khal. “Drogo, you trusted me enough to measure the Andal’s worth. Trust me enough in this: every word spoken from the handmaid is true. She uttered not a lie.”

“Who is this that speaks to me?” Drogo turned to him. “The Ezzolat, who whipped my hands a hundred times? The man who licked at the feet of my father?”

“A most trusted servant,” No-Eyes answered. “One who has not wavered all these many years.”

“Not even now? As I find myself surrounded by conspiracies?” Drogo points a finger at Hezzare. “I find out my brother wields the same poisons that align with how my mother was killed. I hear of accusations against Jon Snow who has pledged his life to me. My own wife is accused of betrayal and treachery. In this chaos, you remain adamant? You are unrelenting? You have not faltered?”

“The girl did not lie, Khal.” The words may well have been daggers. For the first time since she had laid eyes on her husband, she saw his dark eyes turn soft.

Drogo clenched the fists at his side. “The girl will _not_ be touched, do you hear me!” Drogo was teetering between his melancholy and his fury. Dany could have sworn she saw tears stain his cheeks. “This slave revealed to me a conspiracy. If a sword had cut down my mother, I would not blame the forger. She gave Hezzare the poisons, but that is all. Any man that touches her will have the equal done to him. Those are my words.”

 _Did he ask if Drogo was poisoned?_ If No-Eyes had asked the question, and heard Doreah’s lie, then he would know. But when she looked at Drogo, his dark eyes were focused on Hezzare. He strided towards Hezzare. “I called your brother. Our father gave you tutors, dressed you in robes and velvets, fed you from his own horses.” Drogo cupped the man’s face in his hands. “I love you, even now. Brother I named you, and brother you remain to me.” Tears trailed from his eyes. Drogo’s hands were as steady as they could ever be, but Dany could hear the cracks in his voice. “Our mother gave you wise council, and our father was filled with pride at the man you became. I do this for their sake.”

Three days later, Hezzare of Ghis was wrapped in a Tyroshi carpet and dragged onto the plains. With a shout, fifteen horses and their riders charge forth. He was crushed beneath their hooves, and his corpse was lit on a pyre. The fires lasted for two days and two nights, and Drogo demanded that none leave until the very last piece of timber was reduced to ashes. None disobeyed, although many questioned why honors should be granted to a traitor.  
“He was his brother, Khaleesi,” Jhiqui said as she braided Dany’s hair. “Even if he was one by choice, and not by blood. Although, no brother has ever attempt to kill his khal with poison.”

“Truly? Dany asked intrigued. “Not one?”

“Not one,” Irri insisted. She laid a necklace of amber on Dany’s neck. “The only form of honor is with an arakh in hand.”

“And yet my husband honored Hezzare with a pyre.”

“He must have loved the man something fierce, Khaleesi.” And Daenerys could not say that Irri was wrong. In the days following Hezzare’s trial, and even in the days that followed his burning, Drogo remained to himself. He spoke nothing to her as he rose from their bed, he would not mount her – not that Dany would have the strength for such a thing. Drogo often grumbled and kept his bloodriders away from him. Rarely did he summon Jon to council, which Dany was all the more grateful for.

“Are you well?” he asked when he entered her tent. Her handmaids left with a bow.

She smiled. “I am.” She rubbed at her swollen belly with pride. “He is growing strong. I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

She couldn’t miss the iron glint in Jon’s eyes. “Have you thought of a name?”

Dany would be lying if she were to say she hadn’t. For a few brief moments she thought of her brother. Viserys was a strong Targaryen name, and she remembered when her brother displayed those strengths as they ran from one of the Free Cities to the other. But then she would remember how he would twist at her hair, and the cruel things that he said in his darkest moments. Most times she tried to think back on the great Targaryens of old – Aegon the Dragon, Daeron the Good, Jaeherys, Aeron the Dragon Knight, Daemon who was king of the Stepstones. She thought on Aenys for a turn, after the son of Aegon and his beloved sister Rhaenys, but it was too close to her father’s name. But those were all Targaryen names, and despite how much Jon loved her, he was all Stark.

“No,” she lied with a smile. “Not often. Have you?”

Jon rubbed at his whiskers. “I shouldn’t, not with this axe over our heads, but I have. I thought Rickard would be wise, but my brother Rickon was named in his honor. I thought perhaps something after my Father’s sister Lyanna, but I couldn’t think of one that would fit a son. Perhaps Torrhen-“

“After the King Who Knelt?” She looked at Jon with a defiant look. “Whom shall our son kneel to?”

“None,” Jon said steadfast. “But my Father is of House Stark, and you are the last Targaryen. It’s a strong name. I thought it fitting.”

_Strong. That’s what the Starks have always valued. Torrhen, Eddard, Rickon, Brandon, Jon. They are all short names, but so very firm. In the time it takes to say Jon’s name one would still be halfway through Daenerys’. But the Valyrian names were beautiful. None of them sounded displeasing, and all of them were worthy of a king. Or even a queen._

Sometimes she wondered what her titles would be, when she sat on the Iron Throne. The First of Her Name would be a start. Rhaenyra could have been the first Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but her brother Aegon the Second fed her to his dragon Sunfyre. Daenerys would be the first, she swore, the first Queen to rule, and Jon Snow would be the first man to be consort. The other houses would howl and bicker, without a doubt. Let them; Jon was the first to come to her side. It was Jon that would hold her with gentle arms.

As she looked at him, all dust stained and with a mangle of whiskers, she imagined a crown on him. She would give him a crown of iron – she imagined that is what the North would have given her kings. She imagined in him in velvets, with fine studded rings on his fingers. _Jon would be a fine king. With him, none would even think rise against our children._

If things were different, she probably would have been engaged to Rhaegar’s son. Aegon was his name. She wondered what he would have been like, if he was permitted to live. She wondered what he would look like. Viserys had said that Rhaegar was married to Elia Martell of Dorne. She sometimes imagined him with dusken skin and the silvery hair of his father. _But at the end of my days, Jon Snow will be my husband and the father of my children. The Princess and Princesses that would continue the Targaryen line._

When Jon Snow passed from the world, he would die a king. Daenerys promised herself she would do that much.

“I wonder, how much have you thought on the next step? After our son…and after Drogo.”

“One of the Free Cities,” Jon shrugged. “Perhaps Braavos. It is the one city without any slaves. I could stomach that.”

Dany wouldn’t refuse that. She remembered the House with the Red Door that was built on the shores of one of the islands there. That was the only time she had known any peace. She wondered if it was there still. She would love it if her son could run through those same halls she laughed and was loved in when she was still a girl. In one chamber she and Jon and all of their captains would plan their return, and in another their darling would be playing and laughing. She dreamed of Ghost looking at their son with silent vigilance, and Dany could not keep the smile from her face. Sometimes she dreamed of the dragon awakening from their stone eggs, and one of them would name her son as rider…but that just filled her with sadness.

The dragons of flame and scale were dead. But she was not, and her son would not die before his time.

“Jon, come and kiss me,” she commanded. He did so, his lips softly pressed to her. “Whatever happens,” she said, “our son will have a mother that loves him, and a father that will protect him. No matter what.”

“No matter what,” Jon promised.

It was on the first night of their resumed march when Drogo had food and wine brought to their tent. Across the table was strewed horse meat that was cooked on hot stones and sprinkled with spices, boiled ostrich eggs, and horse mare wine. Drogo ate in silence, his scarred fingers ripping through the horse meat. Dany for her part mostly feasted on the ostrich eggs. She found that as her son grew so did her distaste for horse meat. _A year could pass before I would need to eat cooked horse again, and it would still be too soon._

And despite how Drogo feasted on the spiced horse, he had left the mare wine untouched. Dany had often known her husband to wear a mask – that’s all she ever saw when she would look on his face. Drogo was impenetrable. But as they ate in silence, Dany felt something different entire.

She felt dread. In the days following Hezzare’s execution, Dany knew that her husband had changed. He lashed out more eagerly, his bloodriders shared more concerned glances, and he frequently ignored any council given to him. Irri had overheard whispers from some of his ko as to what the future would hold. “The Khal stays, when he should me marching,” Irri said to Dany on the second morn after the execution. “All of the Horde knows we are racing against the Astapori. Khaleesi, speak to your husband.”

But Daenerys remained silent. When she saw Jon bow at Drogo’s feet, with his own knife placed at his throat, Dany could feel her heart thunder in her throat. Jon was playing a deception, and by a miracle it worked. But Dany had to play at her own deceits as well. _I want the forests to burn. I want people to question your leadership, Drogo._ She did not offer counsel to her husband, allowing Drogo to wallow in his rage and frustrations.

“Tell me, Daenerys.” He tore his eyes from his meal and looked at her. “Do you know nothing of what happened to your brother?” _What has No-Eyes taught you? Do you know me for false?_

 _I have no choice._ “I know nothing. He was my brother. He was hateful and cruel to me, but he was my brother. I wished him only happiness.” She sucked at the yolk.

“Yes,” Drogo said. “I understand of love for a brother that wished only ruin on you.” He stuffed a fingerful of horsemeat into his mouth.

Dany felt the leather pouch scratch against her from insider her dress. No-Eyes had laid it into her hands just a few hours ago. “You must live with your choices, Khaleesi. As I have.”

It did not matter how much distrust Drogo had for her. He will sip the poison. Dany just needed a little bit more time. She sipped on the mare wine, and found that it tasted especially bitter.

 

**THE SHE-WOLF OF WINTERFELL**

 

The banners of the Golden Company were raised all around Selhorys, and Arya was able to see the camp from over the hills. The pitched tents dotted the countryside. She could see the ashes of the firepits, the makeshift stables for the horses, the trails left by marching boots in the mud, and the raised skulls dipped in gold. They wind clanged them against each other, and the sound they made was like a distant drum. _Ta-ta-ta-ta._

Myles Toyne was enraged like Arya had never seen when the rider came in the night. “Why by all the fucking gods would Connington raise his piss poor banners around damned _Selhorys_. We need the Volantene ports!” They had already crossed the Rhoyne by then and were marching on the dragonroad towards Volantis. The entire Company had to turn around, and that easily cost them a day.

Arya should have been furious. It was another day that costed her Jon, but she couldn’t help it. She was standing on the River Rhoyne. Nymeria of Ny Sar had sailed from here, with her ten thousand ships, to escape the Valyrian dragonlords. _She saved her own people herself. She didn’t need a king to do that._ When she arrived in Dorne, she married a Martell and united all of the land under her banner. “I named you after her, you know,” she said to Nymeria as she padded by. The direwolf only looked at her for a moment, shook some rain from her furs, and walked away.

On some nights, when Arya would have dragged her furs up to her nose, she would wonder what it was like the first day when Nymeria of Ny Sar sailed. She had to have been scared, but Father had said that one can only be brave when you are afraid. Nymeria must have had been the bravest woman alive when she left the Essosi shores.

Months ago, when Arya had stepped aboard the _Son of Myr_ , she had almost known what Nymeria felt. Arya had wondered how many months and years would pass before she was home again, when she would run through the yards of Winterfell. But Nymeria would never return to the Rhoyne, while she would return with Jon and his dragon and their babe.

She rode through the camp, behind Myles Toyne and the spymaster and the coin counter. She can see men in the golden armor staring at her…or at Nymeria, she realizes. The men with black skin or fair, with the red hair or the golden-silver hair, they all looked at the direwolf. Nymeria gave no notice. She just trod forward, her golden eyes never wandering far from Arya. The force that Myles Toyne dragged from Myr slowly dispersed. Their serjeants roared out orders and they pitch up their camps, light their fires, and got to work. By the time they ride to the largest tent in the camp, with a near dozen flags flowing from the poles, they were just numbered a dozen.

“Remember girl,” Myles Toyne muttered as a squire came to brush at his brown mare, “you are about to meet the true king. Remember your courtesies.”

“True king? Where is his Iron Throne?”

The Captain-Commander only growled and shook his head as he swept aside the flap of the pavilion. Two of the guards put a fist over their hearts as they passed. If this Aegon was truly Rhaegar’s son, his tent did not fit the part. She thought there would be rugs cut from lions, or suits of armor tucked into the corner. There was a bronze tub that was fitted over a fire, and a long table adorned with maps and parchments, but that was the closest to extravagance Arya could notice.

Sitting on a velveted chair was a Summer Islander. Arya had met enough of the black-skinned people for her to know. He wore his hair in thick braids that were tied down his neck, and he bore a cloak of feathers. It was like a rainbow; yellow and green and blue and gold. He crossed one leg over the other as he sharpened a knife against a stone.

It was the two that loomed over the table and the maps that interested Arya. There was a taller man that used to have blue hair. She could see the blue fade way up until the very tip of his red hair. He had his hair tied behind him, and Arya could see all the scars that danced across his face. None of them were as deep as those sported by Myles Toyne, but the man had seen his share of battle. The other was someone that Arya would have sworn would be no older than Jon. He had a soft look to him. Pampered, Arya wanted to say. Sansa would have called him beautiful, no doubt. But even with his fading blue hair, this one was comely. He had blue eyes to go with his fading blue hair.

The red-haired man looked up from the map. “Myles.” His weathered fingers were holding a stone piece, representing a city or military force of some kind.

The Black Heart growled as he stepped forth. “Connington, what the fuck happened to Volantis?”

“Pleasure to see you as well,” the red hairdeadpanned. “The Volantenes opposed us. They don’t want us.”

The younger man at his side folded his arms. He had eyes so blue and piercing they reminded her to Mother. “They thought we were attached with Myr.”

Myles Toyne spat on the floor. “Like hell they do. The Volantenes aren’t stupid. Word would have long reach them that we abandoned Myr. They want something.”

“Everyone wants something,” said the Lyseni.

“Blame my uncle for selling my aunt to a Dothraki khal,” the young man frowned. “Illyrio Mopatis should have known better than trusting the whims of one of those horse fuckers.”

 _Aegon._ “So you are Rhaegar’s son.” Arya weaved between Myles Toyne and Lysono Maar. “You’re Aegon Targaryen.”

Connington narrowed his eyes. “Myles, who is this?”

Lysono Maar stepped forward. “Your Grace,” he said with a smile, “let me introduce to you the youngest daughter of the late Lord Eddard Stark. Arya, this is Jon Connington of Griffin’s Roost. Formerly lord of said keep, which we all hope to rectify. The Summer Islander over there is Black Baraq, our Captain of Archers.”

“Charmed,” said the Archer Captain with a smile.

“And this,” motioned the spymaster, “is Aegon Targaryen. The Sixth of His Name.”

“Arya Stark can introduce herself,” she glared at the Lysene. She turned towards Aegon. “Your Grace,” she said with an edge. She felt Nymeria pad close, her furs brushing against her side. Arya laid her hand on the direwolf’s head, and allowed the fur to coarse between her fingers. If Aegon was unnerved by the sight, his eyes didn’t show it.

“Gods,” Connington sighed, “I thought she was supposed to be with the Magister?”

Arya heard the Summer Islander chuckle. “The fat man is running out of folds of skin to hide his changing plot.”

“I don’t know where the idea came that Arya was with Mopatis,” Myles said. “She had been in Myr for weeks when we found her.”

“And you wouldn’t have found me if I managed to find a caravan. But your stupid war made everyone too afraid to leave the city.”

“Trust us,” Aegon said, “it wasn’t our war.”

“We needed to bide our time,” Lysono Maar chirped, “while we waited on Daenerys.” Aegon did not look pleased. He leaned forward on the table, his fingers digging into the grooves.

“They were supposed to march west.” Arya turned her head and saw Harry Strickland enter the tent, his hands flattening his balding hair. “But Khal Drogo wouldn’t comply.”

“He went for Astapor,” Myles Toyne sighed, “and now we are scrambling to reach him.”

“I knew that was a fool venture,” Aegon said. “I should have wed to her, and produced a true Targaryen heir.”

Arya scrunched her nose. “My brother would have a thing or two to say about that!”

“So it’s true?” Jon Connington folded his arms. “Daenerys Targaryen has taken this Jon Snow as a love?”

 _Or as a husband._ She’d love to see the look on this Aegon’s face when he found out that Jon had beat him to the race. “Jon was with her from the beginning. Where were you?”

“Doing as I was bid!” Aegon slammed a fist onto the table. “No matter my protests.”

“And he protested,” the Summer Islander smiled. Sparks flew from the sharpened edges of his knives.

Jon Connington laid an assuring hand on Aegon’s shoulder. “Calm, boy. Not everything is on fire just yet. Marriage would have been the easiest way to support your claim, but we just need your aunt to stand beside you.”

“So,” she said, “you are Rhaegar’s son. This is Aegon.”

He smiled at her. “In the flesh.”

“How? Everyone knows what happened at the Red Keep. They say that Lannister soldiers killed your sister and that you were…”

“Had my head smashed into the wall as just a babe a few months old?” Aegon shrugged. “It’s better if Westeros thinks that. I don’t want any assassins coming after me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Unlike your aunt and uncle.”

Jon Connington stepped forward before Aegon could speak. “Illyrio Mopatis insisted. Trust me Lady Stark, Aegon likes that less than you do. But the world could not know that Aegon still lived. The sister of Rhaegar was one thing, but if Robert Baratheon knew that his son lived?”

Arya chewed on her lip. “He was willing to send them after my brother. Just because he was close to Daenerys.”

“I do owe your brother a debt,” Aegon said. The way he raised his chin, Arya could almost believe that he was a king. “He protected my aunt, apparently more than my Uncle Viserys ever would. House Targaryen won’t forget that.”

“And how do you plan on paying that debt? What do you want with my brother?”

“That depends,” Myles Toyne said, “on him. And you.”

“You need to convince Daenerys to support Aegon in his claim. It would have been easier if she would marry him, but if half of what we heard is true-“

“She has Jon’s child,” Arya said stubbornly. “She is just as much a Stark as anything.”

Aegon leaned forward on his fists. “I thought Jon was your father’s bastard?”

Arya stomped her foot into the ground. “That doesn’t matter. He is my brother. And I’m bringing them back home.”

“Then do it with the Golden Company,” Lysono Maar said. “Talk to Jon, make him understand that Aegon is the true heir to the Iron Throne. Have Daenerys bend the knee.”

“If he does that,” Aegon said, “I will make him a Stark.”

Arya blinked. “You would do that?”

“It is as I said,” Aegon smiled. “House Targaryen has a debt to pay. I won’t allow my aunt’s child to be a bastard. The dragons must stand together. And the wolves as well, it would seem.”

“House Stark has always stood together,” Arya said with a narrow gaze. “Could the same be said of House Targaryen?”

“It is now,” Myles Toyne decided. “Making her brother a true Stark is a good plan. Once we reach Astapor.” Myles Toyne planted his hands at his side. “But we need to get there first. We can’t march through the Demon Roads.”

“Why not?” Arya asked. She would have done it for Jon.

“Because half of the men would desert,” Harry Strickland mumbled in a bitter tone. “And the other half would die before the end. It’s a death sentence.”

“But Volantis won’t let you into the city,” Arya said. “So you can’t sail. Is there another path?”

Connington shook his head. “Not unless you want to find your brother’s bones and the ruins of Astapor. We’d need to go around the Painted Mountains, and that would take us two years. If we are lucky.”

“Not mention lose all momentum from the war back home,” Myles Toyne said. “Your family fighting the Lannisters is exactly what we need.”

Arya narrowed her eyes. “I’m glad that my family’s suffering is to your benefit.”

“It is the truth,” Connington said. He stared at her with his leathery face. Arya could see traces of scars beneath his beard. “You are not alone in having suffered, Arya Stark. But this is the best chance we have of setting the realm to rights.” He knocked at the table. “Volantis won’t let us enter, but we still have ways. Ten thousand strong now, we are a threat.”

The Paymaster went all wide-eyed. “I hope you’re not suggesting a siege over some boats!” Arya felt some of Strickland’s spittle land on her cheek.

“No,” Connington said sternly, “but let’s pressure them. Surround the towns, make it inconvenient for people to go in or out. Don’t tax them – that would make us little better than robbers. But once the Old Blood gets tired of us, we’ll deal with their envoy. Some ships for us to leave them alone will be a worthwhile trade.”

“And will we have to pay full price?” She could Black Baraq smile behind her.

“Well, close to it,” Jon Connington resigned.

Harry Strickland sucked in a breath. “Surely we do not need to be so confrontational. We may need to work with Volantis again.”

“Strickland,” Myles Toyne said in a dark tone, “we are here for one purpose. To go home. After this, we will never need to deal with Volantis ever again.”

“What’s it matter?” As soon as the words left her mouth, all the heads turned towards Arya Stark. “This here is Aegon Targaryen, is he not? They would let him past. His family have married into theirs in the past.”

“Lys,” the Spymaster wagged his finger, “you are thinking of Lys. The Targaryens married the Rogares in the distant past, but that was long ago.”

Jon Connington frowned. “The world cannot know that Aegon lives. It’s too soon.”

“Too soon?” she said with all fire on her breath. “My family is fighting! Right now my brother Robb is leading men to save my family! My sister Sansa is trapped with the Baratheons in the Reed Keep! Jon is…he is in danger! And so is Daenerys! And you are all talking of how now is not the right time?”

“And what good would it do for us to rush in?” Jon Connington looked at her with narrowed eyes. “The reason we are here is because of Aegon. What good is it if he dies because of your recklessness?”

“Enough,” growled Myles Toyne. “The Stark woman has every right to be aggravated, but this is the proper course. We stand our ground, and annoy the piss out of the Old Blood. And when they come out of their manses, we negotiate.”

“And until then?” Arya turned to face the Company Commander. “What are we going to do while my brother and Daenerys are in danger?”

“We wait. And pray that the Volantenes are not nearly as stubborn as you or our prince.”

 

**THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL**

 

Ghost looked to him as Jon was astride over the river. Shadow huffed as he pulled on the reins. The Golden Horde was marching ahead, all these Dothraki and Lhazareen and sellswords in rhythm with the drum beats. “I know, boy,” Jon resigned. _I am running out of time._ If Jon squinted his gaze over the horizon, he would be able to see the hazy visage of Astapor. They had rode past Mereen and Yunkai already, and there was only one other city still left within Slaver’s Bay. The Unsullied were waiting for Khal Drogo. Jon had made half of a prayer every night that his son would wait until the battle. _If you can hear one command, wait until Khal Drogo is dead._

If his son would be like Robb or Bran, he would be a rebellious thing. If he could obey this one command, and ignore Jon and Dany’s pleas to ride careful, or to not be too reckless with that sword, or please remember your respects my son, then Jon would be content.

Whatever happens, Ghost would protect them both. Ghost was him, and he was Ghost. Jon couldn’t explain it, but he knew that Ghost was by his side, even when he was out of sight. At times he could almost see Ghost, from the corner of his eye. “Viserys told me that a dragon and their riders were one mind. The dragon chose the rider. You can’t tame a dragon.” Dany’s word echoed in his mind at times, and he wondered just true that could be for direwolves. They used to be all over the North, but something happened and they died out.

Until he and Robb found them in that clearing, those five pups clinging to their mother’s corpse. Jon imagined it was just as much chance as fate. _Were you and I destined for each other, Ghost? Were I and Dany?_

If Ghost knew his thoughts, he gave no answer. He padded away, just barely out of Jon’s sight.

“Another river to cross.” He heard No-Eyes’ somber tone behind him. “One of many, before we find our way.”

“I’m sure you’ve crossed your fair amount.”

No-Eyes leaned on his stick. “Still have a few more to wet my shoes on, though. Our ways are constantly changing. Did you imagine yourself here when you crossed the Narrow Sea, at your father’s demands?”

 _I never even imagined I would find a Targaryen. Never would have thought myself a father._ “Can’t say I did. Have you ever clashed with the Unsullied?”

“The gods were good. I never have. All of Essos knows their reputation. They alone stopped the Century of Blood the Dothraki summoned.”

Jon turned to the man. “Be true with me, Ezzolat.” No-Eyes perked his blind gaze to Jon. “What are Drogo’s chances here?” _Can Dany and I escape with our lives?_

“Hard to say. If Khal Drogo was anything but the Khal of Khals, I would say it was pitiful odds. But Drogo is not like any other Khal, and the Golden Horde is not like any other khalasar there has ever been. It depends upon the trees.”

“If he can get his siege weapons, he would need to force the Unsullied onto the field.”

No-Eyes scratched at his beard. “And that battle would be…debatable. The Unsullied are said to control the flow of war like a damn controls the water. But the Golden Horde is such because it is many. And it is not one insane mass of screamers. Say one thing for Khal Drogo, he has inflicted discipline and respect into his khas.”

“But not of those outside of the Dothraki,” Jon said.

“Like Bloodbeard?” Jon could see No-Eyes’ furrowed brow behind his blindcloth. “Or the Khaleesi and her Rams?”

 _They are your Rams too._ Jon didn’t forget when No-Eyes showed him the dark pits of his eyes. _With Drogo’s end, I can free you as well._ “Do you doubt the Khaleesi is loyal to her husband?”

“Loyalty and honor are not the same thing, Andal.” Any trace of a smile was gone from his face. “She is loyal to him, surely. All wives are to their husbands. But is she honorable to him? What would you call her marshalling her own small army?”

 _The beginning of her conquest for the Iron Throne._ Jon loved her, but he often wondered just what he would do after they fled from the Dothraki. He could probably convince her to sell one of the eggs. “Let us give our son a home before anything else,” he could say. That would convince her for a few years. But Daenerys had the blood of Aegon in her. She wouldn’t stay still for long. She would want to return home, and she would do it with an army.

He thought of Robb, with the snow falling onto his hair. Bran who loved to climb. Arya, with her tangled bird’s nest of hair. Sansa was surely wed to Joffrey Baratheon by now. The man was a little shit, but he was family now. Joffrey would never move himself from the Iron Throne, and Father would surely side with King Robert. Dany knew the words of her house, and she would remind the rest of Westeros what they meant.

 _Father what you do?_ Father wouldn’t be where Jon stood. Father never needed to choose between family and the woman he loved. No one ever asked of him to choose between the duty to his family and the one he had to the realm. For Eddard Stark, that was the same thing. To protect his family was to protect the realm.

Not for Jon Snow. His family was Daenerys Targaryen and their son. His duty was to her, but he also had a duty to keep his home safe. Was it from her? Did the woman that he loved had to be the bane of the Seven Kingdoms? _Aegon the Dragon brought fire and blood, but he also brought peace and prosperity._ But Aegon didn’t have any kin in the kingdoms he conquered. His heart wasn’t split when he summoned Balerion to burn down Harrenhal.

Aegon only had his sister-wives, and his Velaryon cousins. Jon had Dany, their son, and his brothers and sisters across the Narrow Sea. Would the Maesters remember that Jon wanted to do right by everyone? _Can I even do such a thing?_ Perhaps he is Daemon the Usurper, born again as a bastard with no trace of royalty.

The Dothraki Sea was waves of yellow, green and red grasses, but the land of Astapor was much calmer. Jon could look and see the harsh mountains growing in the distance, threatening to swallow out the dark sun. There were forests to be sure, but they were small grooves that were divided by the dusty roads.

They were riding at a slow pace. Jon had managed to persuade the Khal to come with the entirety of his armies, instead of just the fastest outriders. The food trains were plentiful, but slow. If they came under attack, the Golden Horde would have the supplies to last through it. But it was a slow pace, and Jon could see the irritation in the Dothrakis’ eyes whenever he trotted past. _Be as irritated as you want. This will save lives._

Sometimes, when Jon contemplated his and Dany’s next actions, a sour feeling would rise in his stomach. When Drogo died, there would be war. Those who were once content to be Drogo’s ko would shake their arakhs in the air and proclaim that they deserve to be khal. A hundred khalasars would be born the die that Drogo died. And some of these khal would lay claim to what the other had.

A hundred small wars will be fought, and a thousand men would die, before the sun would set.

He and Dany would need to move quickly, he knew. The Rams were loyal to an extent. Jon didn’t know what Dany promised them to buy their loyalty, but he could hope that it would apply without having a Khal for a husband. Jon doubted that much of her khas would bend the knee. She was khaleesi, but she was a woman. The Dothraki saw no strength in a woman.

_What would Visenya Targaryen say to that?_

Whomever would follow them, whatever they could secure, they would need to move quickly. Gods be good, Dany wouldn’t go into labor in the middle of the camp. If the gods gave them any favors, Dany would be safe and far away from the Dothraki. Jon would hold his screaming son in a safe place.

_By the next moon, I will have a son._

They rode under the gaze of harpies that were carved into the mountains. “This is the Path of Kings,” Jon heard Jorah explain to Daenerys. “Many of these faces are carved in the likeness of the kings of Ghiscar.”

“But Ser,” Dany said as he gazed upwards, “their faces are gone.”

“Yes, just like the glory of Ghiscar. Not much remained after the dragons came.”

They rode under kings with beards, and queens with wings. They had broken swords and severed axes, scepters that were shattered and shields that were broken and splintered. Jon wondered what they called themselves. He knew some of the old Kings of Winter. Old Nan had spun their stories a dozen times, as he and Robb stared at her on their bellies. There was Brandon the Builder, who built Winterfell, the Wall, the Hightower, and perhaps even Storm’s End. Theon the Hungry Wolf had raided across the Narrow Sea in vengeance for his brother’s murders. The North never knew a year of peace under his reign. Brandon the Burner had ended the North’s navy after his father, another Brandon, had died at sea.

Jon looked up to one of the faces that still remained, the red carving of a woman with the form of a hawk. He could have sworn there were eight breasts on her chest, but it could have been ten. _Gods, I am far from you. But don’t ever let House Stark be like these old kings of Ghiscar. Let the carvings in the crypts last for ten thousand years. Let my family live._

The wind blew at his hair, sending red dust into his eyes. He rubbed them out with the back of his hand. They were days away from Astapor. _Days from our reckoning. Old Gods, there are no weirwood trees in this land. But help me all the same._

Three days after they left the Path of Kings, the Golden Horde came upon the fields of Astapor. They looked down and saw the city that bore the Unsullied. They could see the Blood Pits, the harpy statues smelted in bronze, the pyramids and manse and the gardens that decorated the city. Even as far as they were, they could see the blood-red bricks that formed the city.

The city was red, and the gardens were brown and olive, but the fields were black and gray and smoldering. The trees were burnt to a tip, hunched over and cracked with the heat, bellowing out a thick and dark smoke from their hollowed core. The grasses were night black, and their edges glowing with embers. Pillars of smoke were raised all across the battlefield, and in such abundance that the sky over Astapor had taken on a darker hue.

And as far as the eye could see, not a single tree was left standing, not one ton of timber, nor any wood for the siege weapons that Khal Drogo craved. The forests of Astapor were ash.

 

**A KNOWING MAN**

 

The tent smelled of ashes and sulfur, and Khal Drogo was doing all in his power to contain his fury. A mighty wind was assaulting the thick canvas of the camp, and the silence among Khal Drogo’s council assailed the nerves. No-Eyes could imagine the slightest of glances shared between the blood riders. He could not imagine the look on Drogo’s face. He had always heard how the Khal had a mask, that he never gave away his thoughts.

He knew the boy. The Khal was alien to him. Ever since Drogo took up his father’s mantle, No-Eyes could never say he truly knew him. With others he would take a moment and listen to the pace of their breaths, the way they would lean on one foot or the other, how they would fold their fingers. All a thousand revelations, and none of which Drogo provided.

As the Khal sat in his seat, surrounded by his bloodriders and ko, No-Eyes tried to get a sense of what the man thought. Of what the boy he had held was thinking. Of what the Khal intended. No-Eyes knew the poison was taking its toll. He could hear it in the release of Drogo’s breaths. The man was weaker, but he was still formidable. He was still the Khal of Khals, even if all the ko below him questioned him. They wouldn’t do so with their words, no man would be so foolish. But it was felt in the air.

Perhaps there never should be a Khal of Khals. Maybe the Dosh Khaleen were spice addled fools, and the Dothraki would never ride as one khalasar. Perhaps the Golden Horde would be defeated by the burning of a forest.

Perhaps Khal Drogo would destroy himself.

“We should not have waited,” Qotho said. The man was a brute, and had the patience to show it. “What need we for supplies?”

“Say what you will Qotho.” Ko Jhaqo was as keen of a warrior as No-Eyes could meet. He did not fear the horselord. “But the Andal was right. See how far you can ride without food or water.” Of all of the Ko in the Golden Horde, Jhaqo was the most patient. And by that extension, the most ruthless. “It was not the supply train that delayed us.”

It was Drogo’s remembrance of Hezzare that stalled them. For three days the Golden Horde waited tirelessly for Drogo to ride towards Astapor. And for three days Drogo did nothing, giving the Masters of Astapor time to set their plans to motion.

But not even Qotho would raise his protests. It would be unthinkable for a khal to kill his bloodrider – but Drogo was no other khal. He had killed a khalakka with his own hands. Would ending his bloodrider be any different? _Qotho would not wish to find out. So, for once, he will stay his tongue._ So, the Golden Horde kept their doubts to themselves, and waited. On the third day, Drogo gave the order and his army continued their march on Astapor.

“The trees are burnt,” Cohollo said. “The forests sent to cinders. Forget about laying blame. We came to take Astapor.”

“How would you do that?” Jon Snow cut through the silence. “No-Eyes aside, we’ve all seen the walls. Step out this tent, and you will see how high those pink walls rise. You won’t be taking that down with arrows or arakhs. I doubt you can scream so high as to break away stone.”

“You would have us retreat?” Ko Pono dribbled behind his ruined teeth.

“Let the Andal speak.” The Khal spoke in iron tones that cut through any argument. “He has never given me fool council. Unlike a few Dothraki that could be named.” Jon Snow was silent. “I commanded you to speak.”

“Khal, I do not have an answer for you. You needed the forests for your siege engines. You needed to force the Unsullied onto the open field, where you had the advantage. Well, more than on the streets of Astapor. The strength of the Dothraki come from horseback, not in the narrow alleys of a city. But you also cannot retreat. To do so would invite your ko to rise as khals in their own might.”

“Never,” swore Ko Jhaqo. “I have laid my arakh at the feet of the Khal of Khals.”

“Maybe you did, but how many of the ko were absorbed by Khal Drogo?” The answer, of course, was a hundred upon a hundred. Many of them were the sons or brothers of khals that Drogo or his father Bharbo had killed or shamed in battle. They were loyal only for as long as Drogo continued to give them victories. And the more Drogo sat in forest of desecrated trees, the more at threat his position was. “Khal, we do hold the dominating position. We can starve out the city.”

 _He would never accept that. You know this, Jon Snow._ “That could take years,” Qotho protested. He slammed his fist at the table. “And every day is a threat to the Khal.”

“You cannot take down a wall with arakhs, Qotho. And we do not have an armada to besiege by the sea. Starve them out, drain their supplies, force them to turn on each other. It will take years, but Astapor will fall. They may even force the Unsullied out onto the field regardless.”

“Explain,” Drogo commanded.

“Desperation,” Jon explained. “At first they will be content. They will go through their stocks and previsions. The people will starve, but the Masters will rest in luxury. For a time. Then they will hunger. The horses will be cut first, without a doubt.”

“Horses are a fine meat,” Qotho said.

Jon ignored that. “But after the horses are gone, then they will grow desperate. They’ll learn to savor rat meat. That is when they will need to make a decision, between eating their dead or meeting you upon the field.”

“And how long would that take?” Drogo’s question was filled with uncertainty. _You dread what Jon Snow is about to say._

“Possibly years,” Jon Snow said. “In the war that my father fought, Lord Stannis Baratheon withstood the siege of Storm’s Land for almost a year. I heard that if it weren’t for the arrival of a smuggler that brought onions, Lord Stannis would have learned what human flesh tasted like.”

“What are onions?” Ko Polo asked.

“Something preferable to eating men,” Jon answered. “There will be no smugglers for Astapor. We control the coasts, and we surround the river. We just need to wait.”

“Like cowards,” Qotho snarled. “Khal, let us demand single combat. Our champion against theirs.”

Ko Jhaqo laughed. “They would never accept such a thing. They would rather wait behind their walls like milk men. But Astapor is not the unbreakable city. Astapor is not Qarth, with their three walls. This city and their Masters have only a single wall to protect them from us. The Andal’s plan holds promise.”

“Hold promise for the Golden Horde to devour itself,” Cohollo muttered. “Khal, you must be bold. Do not ask for a contest of champions, do not wait. Launch a siege on the city!”

“With what?” Jon asked. “Sticks and foul language?”

“With hooks,” Cohollo said proudly. “With ladders, with rams, with anything we can produce. We are Dothraki. We do not starve an enemy out, we do not run.”

“With what trees will we produce these battering rams and ladders?” Jon Snow could not hide the aversion in his voice. “You want to overrun the walls? What do we have to do that with? We needed the forests and the Astapori reduced it to cinders!”

“Get out,” Drogo demanded.

“But my Khal-“

“GET OUT!” No-Eyes could feel Drogo rushing to his feet, his voice all thunder and fury. He heard the shuffling of sandaled feet that left the tent. “Not you No-Eyes. I would still have words.” And for a moment, No-Eyes felt the world was breaking. He could hear the way in which No-Eyes spoke the words – in much the same way a young boy would come for counsel.

But he was not a boy. He was a man, the Khal, an aspiring conqueror, a killer of men and a slayer of woman, who treaded upon cities and temples. He was Bharbo. “Do I have your trust?”

 _I gave the Khaleesi the poison. I am killing you._ “Ever since you were a young khalakka, you have had my trust.”

“You have never had mine. For all the wisdom bestowed, it just washed off of me. I always wondered – did you hate me for taking after my father rather than yourself?”

 _I hated you for it. You took after the man that betrayed me, whose ambition killed all in temple. Najetor with his smiles, Old Haretoh with his softly spoken wisdoms, Ijutsah who always laughed. All dead at your father’s hands._ “I cannot fault one for taking after their father.”

“Even if that father burnt out your eyes?” That was the truth of it. For all that Khal Bharbo had done, No-Eyes may have been able to forgive him. He could have seen himself admiring the man. But then the torch casted out his sight forever, and in that darkness No-Eyes could only seethe. “I am not so blind, Ezzolat.” And at that, No-Eyes could almost see him as he imagined him. A young khalakka who would wear jewelries and horse leather and firmsand sandals. A boy eager to learn, enormously stubborn, and so willing for his teacher to lay a cooling hand on his shoulder. “I know that you despised my father. I know you did not come to him willingly, and I know you he is why the world knows you as No-Eyes.”

“I always did teach you to see with more than your eyes.” No-Eyes smiled. “Your steps were always too loud.”

He heard Drogo breath as he fell back into his chair, the leather groaning as he fixed his weight into it. “All of my ko are nipping at my feet. They are waiting for my death rattles. They are like snakes. I can’t trust any of them.”

“And those that are not ko, what are they to you?”

“Dogs, wolves and goats.” No-Eyes heard the man let out a relieved sigh. “You never were one for deceptions, Priest. I can trust you. And the Andal – he is as you said. He has never proven me false. Jon Snow was not born on the horse, and I have more trust in him than all of my ko. Perhaps even more than the blood of my blood. Father trusted his ko almost as much as his bloodriders.”

“He trusted Hezzare.”

“And look where that got him and my mother. Look where it got me. I should be thankful for Hezzare. I have no friends here. I thought if I united all of the Dothraki behind me, I could break these former khals or sons of khals. But they will not break. They will only bend and only to a point. I think that is what killed my father, even more so than those poisons. The weight of this empire crushed him.”

“Drogo, you don’t know that it was Hezzare that killed your father. He only conspired against your mother…and yourself.” _The lies twist._

“Oh, I know,” and the man spoke in such a dark tone that No-Eyes wondered if he knew. “He had poisons for my father, just as he did for my mother. Just as he planned for me. My father brought a snake into my home, and I loved the man. Hezzare always said to me, ‘You are too much of a horse’. A horse does what he is commanded. You kick at the horse, it runs. You pull on the reins, and it stops.”

“You united the Dothraki because you wanted to.”

“There you go,” Drogo laughed throaty, “with your pretty lies again. My father told me I would be the Khal of Khals, and so I was. I did the deed, I swung the sword, I killed the men, but what if he never pushed that on me? Would the Dosh Khaleen be ashes and dust still? Would I still have the will to bind all of the khalasars to me?”

“Those questions will burn a man from the inside.” _What are the heavens and the primals? What does it mean to know yourself? Do you see for what you are, Drogo?_

Drogo pushed the gesture aside. “I am more than my father. I am more than my ko. I am more than even you, Ezzolat. I see my chains, and I will cut them loose. We will ride on the walls. We will fashion hooks and climb those walls.”

“That is death,” No-Eyes insisted.

“There is always death.”

No-Eyes found himself wandering through the camp after that. No-Eyes could hear a dozen rumblings through the camp – men tending to the horses, the bubbling of stew over humble fires, the clucks of chickens from their pens. But above it all was a silent pall that was drawn over them. The faith in the Khal was gone. Drogo was supposed to bring to the Dothraki glory and plunder, and instead he gave them a burnt forest.

And the man had changed. Ever since Hezzare’s death, the Khal had drawn to himself. No-Eyes had heard that he did not take the Khaleesi’s bed as of late, and none could miss the way he would lash out at his bloodriders at ko. Drogo was speaking quicker and more harshly than he ever had before.

_Drogo will be killed by a dead man. Hezzare’s words cut into his heart._

A bitter stench filled him, a smell that No-Eyes had learned too well. “Ghost,” he breathed, leaning on his stick. He heard the wolf’s paw sink into the earth, the wet sound of his breaths as his tongue hung in the air. “Jon Snow.”

“I was following the wolf. I assure you Ezzolat, I was not stalking.” Jon leaned the weight of his foot from one to the next. No-Eyes wondered just how uncomfortable Ghost must be. He was a wolf, and wolves hunted for that hot blood in their gullets. But this dead forest had nothing to provide. “He’s been wandering more and more as of late.”

“There is nothing here for him. I’m sure he will look forward to when Drogo leaves this place.” No-Eyes considered staying silent. _Drogo took me into his counsel._ But he was in bed with the Khaleesi and Jon Snow. As some would say, the dye was cast. “Drogo means to march on the walls. With hooks, although fashioned from what is beyond me.”

“It’s beyond him as well.”

“You said as much during the council.”

“Was I wrong then?”

“No, you are not,” No-Eyes resigned with a sigh. “Cohollo wants nothing more than to serve the Khal honorably. And the only way he can do that is with glory and blood. Qotho will support the measure, but he is too bloodthirsty to think on how to achieve it.” If Jon wanted to draw support for his plan, he would need to beseech Ko Jhoqo. The man saw the promise in waiting out the Astapori, and two unified voices were better than none.

But Jon won’t go to the Ko. His heart wasn’t in it for Drogo to prosper and succeed. Only for Daenerys to survive the coming weeks. _And now I am with them. We make a fine band of liars and deceivers._

“And did you advise to the Khal?”

 _I did not advise him of your treachery._ “I tried my best to remind him of what it was like when he was just a boy, eager to learn. But I think all the cleverness was burnt out of him. He wants only blood, no matter how much of it there is.”

“Or of whose.” No-Eyes could hear the way Jon entwined his fingers behind his back.

“You are unsure of the future.”

“Tomorrow is never certain.”

“Not so. I am certain that a man named Jon Snow will find his way. It won’t be the one standing beside me, but someone very much like him. Someone with the same face, with the same lips and the same eyes, but he will be a changed man. All that he has endured will have changed him. He will find his way.”

“And you have found your way, Ezzolat? Has No-Eyes of the Knowing Path found the road that he needs to walk?”

No-Smiles. “Oh, yes. I have found my way. And it is a man that has made his choice.”

 

**THE KHAL OF KHALS**

 

The howling would not cease. It scratched at his mind, like long nails raking on stone. With every beat of his heart came another screech inside of his skull. An inhuman howl it was, a moan from something beyond time. Whenever he took a breath, he could feel cold fingers race up from his heart. They desperate for his breath, to end his life, to cut short the life of the Khal of Khals. To end the man that united the Dothraki.

Every breath was an act of defiance. _I live yet. My life still clings to me. I am alive._

His fingers trailed the lips of the cup. When the fire was hot and crackling, the glass was almost aglow in the light. But the crackles of the flame had grown dim, and the orange light was reduced to dark embers. Drogo closed his eyes often in a vain attempt to keep the screeches from pounding. And he could almost see the fires in the darkness.

Drogo drank the wine, a pale arbor from some place that he didn’t care for. It could have come from the Summer Islands for all he cared. He drank often and freely, allowing the wine to wash everything away. He savored the sweetness as it flowed down his throat.

Daenerys was looking at him. She lounged on a bench of ivory, overflowing with cushions and pillows. She wore her dress of silk and horse furs, but her pregnant belly was laid bare. Her handmaidens were busy painting the dancing horse on her. “You are very patient,” Daenerys said as Irri brought a red brush around her middle. “I imagined you would be out while Irri and Jhiqui did their work.”

“No.” The word came out hoarse, and his throat burned. “I would watch.” The horses would protect his son, keep his wife safe as she delivered him into the world. It was known. In regards to his son, Drogo would savor every detail. He would have preferred if the handmaidens weren’t so slow with their work. Hours have passed since the first drop of ink was spread on his wife, and the horses were starting to grow form and shape. They were dancing around on her womb, their stampedes foretelling of the son she would bring into the world.

Drogo watched in silenced from then on, his fingers trailing the edge of the glass. His presence must have put the handmaidens at ease - the few times they would turn to look at him, there was an uneasy look in their eyes. _As it should be. I am the Khal of Khals._ When they were finished, Drogo marveled in their work. Two crimson horses, the ink gleaming, with hoofs raised high across Daenerys’ belly.

“You can leave,” Drogo said. Irri and Jhiqui gave their Khaleesi a quick glance, and when she nodded in approval, they raised to their feet, bowed in respect, and left through the flap of the tent. Drogo could feel the cold breeze race across his shoulder. For a moment he could hear the wind bellow across the desolated woods.

“You look rather pleased, husband.” Daenerys herself looked pleased as she drank sweet water from a cup of bronze. She leaned back on the feather pillows and cushions, but her eyes never wandered from Drogo. _There is a smile on your face, but your purple eyes burn._

“I have reason to. My son will be born. The heir to my seat in Vaes Sash. Should a father not be pleased?”

“Indeed,” she said, “he is. Beyond words, even.”

Drogo raised his head at that, even though his skull echoed from the effort. “I am not without words. Not yet.” Daenerys only smiled as she drank from her cup. “You have heard by now.”

“A thing or two. Or three. Something about hooks for the walls of Astapor.”

He nodded. The whirlwind of pain scratched at him for that. He felt his fingers go soft. He tightened his hand into a fist. “Jon Snow advised me well. But he does not have a Dothraki’s heart. And neither do you. It is not in us to wait for the enemy to feast on rats.”

“But is it in you to scale the walls like monkeys?”

“Monkeys with swords,” he smiled. Something ripped through his throat then, a burning in his lungs that rattled his flesh. His glass fell onto the ground, spilling the red wine on the hakkar carpet, and a violent cough tore through him. Every stabbing breath felt like a dagger rising through his throat. When it was done, tears were flowing down his face. Drogo looked down at his hand, and he saw his palm covered in dark spots. A taste of copper overwhelmed him and ever lingered, even after he swallowed, clinging to him like tendrils in his throat.

When Drogo looked and saw his wife, there was no display of horror. Her purple eyes were not open in shock, her hands did not tremble at the sight. She was standing, her posture bold, her eyes glimmering. She held a fist at her chest.

Drogo coughed again, unleashing another storm of pain down his throat. That forced him down to his knees. “You,” he gasped. His fingers dug into the white and red spotted hrakkar.

“Yes.” She kneels at his side. “Daenerys Stormborn never was content to be your wife, Khal Drogo. Not for a moment. Not when my brother demanded the marriage from me, and not now as you breath your last. I betrayed you, as did Jon Snow. Always he prepared for the day when his sword would carve out your heart.” She dug into her dress and pulled out a leather pouch. “A gift from No-Eyes.” She flung it in his face.

 _The poison._ “Hezzare?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I never knew the man. I never went to him, and he never came to me. Perhaps your brother did conspire against you.” She smiled. “I would like to think not. Maybe your ignorance made you kill the one man that truly loved you. Or maybe you never were loved. That could be the sweetest thing. The world will never know. You will never know.” She produced a knife, a long and slender thing. “A gift, from Jon Snow to me. He told me a man must look in the eyes of those they mean to kill. If they can’t bear to do the deed, then perhaps they deserve to live.

“Know this, Khal Drogo. I have no hesitations when it comes to you.” Drogo watched as she brought the blade to his chest. He shivered as the tip trailed along his flesh. “A push and you are dead. Here is your heart. The mighty Khal Drogo, fell by his pregnant wife.” She tilted her head in curiosity. “I wonder if any would sing of that. I imagine not. What would you say?”

Drogo was silent and seething.

“I thought the shame. Go and die, Khal Drogo.” She flung the knife away. “I don’t need a knife to kill you. That work is already done.”

 _No, not like this. I am the Khal of Khals. If I die, it will be with blood on my hands._ He rose to his feet, but his legs were as light as glass. His mind was air, and his breaths were as hot as flame. He looked down on his wife, and she stared up at him. Her eyes were indigo, bright as flame, and she smiled. That smile spread into a grin as he fell on his knees.

“A dragon is not a slave.” She laid a protective hand on her belly. “And a wolf does not bow before a horse. If anything, the horse runs before the pack. Maybe that’s what you should do, Khal Drogo. _Run_.”

And he did. He felt the blood trickle down from his lips. His heart thundered like a massive drum, and with each beat a threat to rip him apart. The wind was as cold as ice, colder than death. Hot tears steamed down his cheek, and his lungs burned.

The night was pale and cold, and the sky was swirling over him. He could hear cries and noises, but their words washed over them. When he made his way past the men and women, their faces were shimmering and twisted. Like sands being pulled by strong winds.

And the wind howled, as high and crass as a wolf.

The ghost grass rose and reached for him. He knew he should not be there. The flames of Astapor had spared no trees, no blades of grass. But his milky eyes saw them all the same: these wispy, pale and thin grass that wrapped around him. _The death that shall consume the world_. That is what the Dosh Khaleen had preached for a thousand years. The pale will overtake the red and the green and the gold, and the world would end.

But Drogo could see the world all around him. He could see the horses and their riders. The ghost grass was here, but the world still turned. The pale blades waved as he passed, but still he lived.

 _Remember_ the grasses whispered. Remember what? He remembered his father, who had a beard that stretched down to his chest. “You shall be higher than all of the khals,” he had promised. He could only speak with half a lip after he was ravaged, but his father was never weak. Drogo passed by one of the flame burnt trees, their lives cooked out from them.

He remembered the men. His men, from all of the horse lords. All of them born and bred under the Stallion. He remembered their hatreds and their loyalties. They did not look as he staggered by, they did not proclaim “There is the Khal of Khals!” Did they not _see_ , did they _know_ , were they so deaf and blind as he was?

The army…the army was stopped. They were slowed. They had failed. The forests had burned. The smoke had reached the Mother in the Sky. The sky was dark and gray and heavy with all of his failings. He remembered the cooled fires in their eyes as they looked at him. He remembered devil with the black hair and the iron eyes. “Wait for the supplies” he had cautioned. “Wait for your death.”

He could feel the pale grass pull at him. _Do you remember_? He remembered all of their names. Taroqo, with the snarling teeth; Ogo and his son Fogo; Motho who died before Drogo could even end his life on the battlefield.

And Toqoro. The boy, the Khalaka with soft hair and wet eyes. “He is a boy of seven!” The Andal’s words echoed in his mind. Again and again Drogo could hear the protests. _Do you not know why I did it? It had to be done._

 _Did it?_ whispered the grass. Drogo felt all of his strength slip from him, leaving him weak and useless. He fell onto his knees, sagging against the brittle blades of grass. With staggered breath he crawled through the grasses, his hands sinking into the ashen ground, the blades scratching against his face.

Amidst all of the desolation, there was one tree that still stood tall. Drogo leaned against it. Every breath felt like a great achievement, his lungs aching from the labor. The wind whispered words into his ear, but they tasted of ash and sulfur, and he could not understand them. The grass kept on saying _Remember? Remember?_ and Drogo could not say what else he was to remember.

He remembered so much already. But his memory fled from him, like a herd of horses across the sea, the grasses swaying in their charges, and all he could feel was remorse.

The first came then, from beyond the pale grass that swayed. Drogo wanted to name it a hakkar, but hakkars weren’t supposed to have a human face. He saw his father, with his limp lip and cold stare. “Father?” he gasped. “What are you doing here? You are supposed to be prowling in the Night Lands.”

His father did not reply.

Then came the second, the ghost grass bowing in their shafts to grant passage. Drogo saw Hezzare, his black hair and tea skin contrasting against the pale fur. “Brother.” The word was poison, and Drogo felt all of his strength leave his throat. His voice was coarse when he was able to speak again. “I said you were weak, so I would protect you. I put my arms around you and laughed. Do you remember?”

His brother gave no response.

The last followed. Drogo felt the pain fill his chest as he looked into Toqoro’s eyes. “Khalakka,” he wept. “Don’t look at me,” he prayed, “not in my shame.” He wanted to turn his gaze, but he couldn’t find the strength. Toqoro stared into him, his brown eyes unflinching. “I was trying to be strong. I wanted the histories to remember me. The Khal that united all of the khalassars! That was my father’s dream. That was my dream. I shouldn’t have done it.” He felt his body shake. “I should have been stronger and let you _live_. Killing you was so easy.”

The wind pulled at the grasses. They made their approach. Drogo was too weak to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was posted slightly later than usual. Apologies about that. Been way too busy as of late, and the whole formatting and grammar check lagged behind because of it.
> 
> This is the point where I need to make an announcement. After I post Chapter 10, the weekly postings of each chapter will go on hiatus. As I reflected on the Astapor arc, I realized I had to make some drastic changes to Arya's story. I originally was going to have her split with the GC in this chapter, and have her venture in Astapor alone, but that wouldn't work. Arya needs to be with the GC to provide us a perspective on them before they catch up with Jon and Dany. So I need to rewrite about 40 or so pages. On top of that, even though I have been hitting my three pages a day goal, not all of those three pages were in new chapters. I would often times rewrite previous perspectives, or expand on chapters with new perspectives. The Viserys POV at the end of chapter four is one example. 
> 
> As of this writing, Chapter 14 is finished, but half of it needs to be rewritten to adapt to Arya's new storyline. I imagine the story will resume in three months time, at the very most. So you can all start nagging me for an update on the Astapor arc once we hit the first week of July. Anyone who asks questions before that time will be pelted with tomatoes and rotten eggs.


	10. Fire and Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Horde breaks apart at the gates of Astapor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.chaosinferred.com/creative/asoiaf/dragons/10-fire-and-blood/

**X**

**FIRE AND BLOOD**

 

**THE DRAGON’S SON**

Aegon hated the stench of the dye. He could not say there was anything else like it in the world. Once Septa Lemore poured the blue liquid onto her hands, there was no escaping it. The smell was would roll over him, and it would take all of his gritting teeth and all of his fingers clenched into a tight fist to keep from gagging. And sometimes that would not be enough to keep from groaning as the Septa rubbed the dye into his hair.

The only good to come from it were Lemore’s fingers. They always managed to rub into his scalp in all the right ways. A tingling sensation rolled over him whenever she reached beneath his layers of hair. Sometimes he would take in a deep breath from how relaxed he would become. That was always a mistake, as then he would inhale the stench of the dye.

“Are you ill at ease, Your Grace?” He groaned at that. Aegon would never understand how the Septa could stand the smell. He never once heard her gag or recoil in revulsion. More than once he would hear her hum or sing a soft tune under her breath as she worked. “I suppose it is for the best. A king should not be comfortable all the time. A crown is a heavy burden.”

When Septa Lemore was done, she offered him a mirror on a metal handle. His silver hair was washed away in a deep blue. One could hardly say that Aegon was a Targaryen when his hair was blue. In a certain light, his eyes were almost blue. _But that is the point. The hair helps hide who I am._ It would take a few hours for Lemore to wash the dye off from her hands, while it would be several weeks for it to be washed from his hair.

“There’s the Aegon I know,” the Septa said with a small smile. “The Tyroshi named Young Griff. Has your father put on his new colors yet?”

“He did,” Aegon said, “before he rode out with the others.” After a few weeks, the Volantenes had finally agreed to a meeting. They had finally grown weary of the Golden Company harassing the travelers on their roads. It took too long by Aegon’s estimates, and even more so by the Stark girl’s. If her scowling looks were a weapon, they would have no need for an army. Just march Arya Stark right up to King’s Landing, and rip the usurpers from the Iron Throne. “When I find my aunt, she’ll see that I have been hiding. Not all of the dye will have washed out by the time we reach Astapor. She’ll know I’ve been hiding.”

“She’ll know you have been doing what needed to be done,” said the Septa in a firm tone. “Just as her brother did. As she does now. You are Rhaegar’s son. If Robert Baratheon knew that you lived, it would be you that he sent his assassins after.”

Aegon’s fingers tapped on the table. “But it was alright if my aunt and uncle were the targets. Because they are expendable. That was the way of it, am I wrong?” The words tasted bitter on his lips. “I heard the Stark girl say something to Commander Toyne a few days back. Do you want to know what she said?”

Lemore sighed. “I have a feeling you are going to tell me regardless.”

“The pack survives where the lone wolf dies.” The Septa was quiet. “She crossed the Narrow Sea alone to find her pack. She never even met my aunt, and Arya Stark decided that Daenerys was family. The Seven knows what she had to do to make it here. And for all these years, I have been sitting on my ass.”

“You’ve been preparing,” Lemore insisted. “It’s not like we’ve been feeding you grapes.”

Aegon snorted. “You would feed me hard bread and poorly cooked fish. And I had better like them, or I was going to hear it.”

She crossed her arms with an amused smile on her face. “And you did, more than once.”

“More than a few times,” he muttered. “You are a shitty cook, Septa Lemore.”

“But a damn fine fisherwoman, if I dare so myself.” Aegon allowed her that. She was the one that would teach him how to fish on the riverbeds. “I remember the day I first saw you. A boy up to my knee, wide eyed and eager to find his place. Now you are a man, Aegon.”

“You expect me to deny what I’ve done? I’ve let my aunt and uncle be my decoys.”

“No, Aegon, I want you to embrace what you have done. The Stark girl has the right of it. We weren’t wrong, to keep your life a secret. But that doesn’t mean there is no cost. You will be king. Everything you do comes with a price.”

 _And what is the cost of my waiting? I linger here in Volantis, while my uncle has been murdered and my aunt is in danger of her life._ “Daenerys will give birth by the time we reach Astapor.”

“Probably,” Lemore breathed. “Maybe if Drogo was a puppet on strings, we would all be in Westeros by now. But the Khal proved what kind of man he is. And so did your aunt.”

Aegon turned towards her. “Is that pride in your voice, Septa?”

“A little,” she smiled. “Girl gets sold to a warlord, so she goes and fuck a bastard and gets heavy with his child. You Targaryens have a fire in you, I have to give you that.”

“And I could be the last spark of that flame,” Aegon said softly. “Do you think Arya Stark suspects?”

“I’m sure she does. The girl has wits to match her teeth. Even if we leave today, it would be months before we can reach Astapor. And who knows how along your aunt is? If we’re lucky, only by a few months.”

“And luck has never been with us. Not with me. If it were, my father would not have died on the Trident. Daenerys would have lived in King’s Landing. We would not be in this mess.” Aegon sighed as he leaned in his seat. “I should talk to her.”

“The Stark girl. That one has a temper.”

“You going to tell me I shouldn’t?”

She chuckled. “Oh, quite the opposite. You need a licking from a woman besides me. Would make for good practice if we save Daenerys. Want me to go fetch her?”

“Just most of it. Should I light a candle to the Father?”

“Spare me,” he said as he walked past her.

“I’ll go find a match.”

Aegon left the warm confines of the tent, and he found himself covered in the muggy air. A hot wave had rolled over Volantis a week ago, but then it had stormed for days afterwards. That left behind an air that had a weight to it, hot and heavy and weighed everything down. It was a struggle to make his way through the camp. Many men of the Company had taken to laying water soaked rags on their necks, to keep the heat off them.

The Golden Company was nestled between Valysar and Selhorys. Both towns were seated on the river Rhoyne that flowed into Volantis, and the city relied on both for tolls and the ferrying of goods and flesh. Aegon wondered why the Old Blood hasn’t demanded a meeting sooner. _Perhaps they are just stubborn. They thought that we would move on after a day._ That didn’t sit right with Aegon, however. Volantis is the second greatest of the Free Cities – the lords and masters of that city weren’t stupid.

In his bones, Aegon knew something was wrong. Even when Jon Connington told him that they would meet with the emissary in Sar Mell. “That place is a ruin, Jon.” His fingers had curled around the cup of wine.

“It is a halfway point between us and the city.”

Aegon had frowned at that. “It’s a perfect place for a trap.”

“Which is why Black Baraq will station his archers all over the ruins. They want to spring a trap on us, they’ll have to get through one of our own.” Jon had laid his hand on Aegon’s shoulders then, in his firm and assuring way. “Have some faith, Egg.”

“I have faith,” he insisted. “But I don’t like this. Not any of this. Selling Daenerys to that Khal Drogo, how long we waited to make our move, lying in wait here, this meeting with Volantis. It all seems wrong. The Conqueror didn’t move in shadows.”

“He did if you consider the shadows of his dragons. Aegon,” Jon said in a firm voice, “none of us like this. But it’s not like we can just sail to Westeros. After Drogo dashed all of our plans, we have to find your aunt. And to do that, we need ships. So we need the Volantenes to take the shit out of their ears and listen to us.”

“And if they don’t.”

Jon sighed. “Then pray they do. Or else we really are up shit creek.”

So now he had to wait. His entire life was nothing but waiting. Waiting for the right time, waiting for Illyrio Mopatis to work with his friend across the Narrow Sea, waiting to find his aunt and uncle, and now he had to wait for Jon Connington to return from this twice-damned meeting.

Aegon found Arya Stark among a grove of trees. She was barefoot, and her left foot was curled around the ridges of a rock. The right foot was lifted high and bent, like some kind of crane as it drank from a river. She was balancing her thin sword on her fingers. Aegon knew the stance from the time he had watched a duel in the Moon Pool in Braavos. “You are a water dancer?”

He saw her flinch, but only for a moment. The direwolf emerged behind a tree, her golden eyes staring Aegon down. “I was trained as such,” she said without looking back. Her leg became as stuff as wood, but the sword hilt was balanced on her fingers. Arya sucked in her breath, and Aegon watched as her shoulders straightened. The sword did not fall, and neither did she.

Aegon took a step, but Nymeria began to approach. He remained where he was. “Who taught you.” Arya was quiet. “I shouldn’t-“

“Syron Forel,” she said quickly. “He was the First Sword of Braavos.”

“The First Sword? No, he can’t be. The First Sword right now is Qarro Volentin. He protects Ferrego Antaryon.”

“He was the First Sword-“

“Maybe to another Sea Lord.” Arya again was quiet, but Aegon could feel the direwolf’s stare. _Please tell me she has been fed._ “What are you doing?”

“A water dancer can stay on her toes for hours.” She shifted, from one foot to the next, in a graceful move. All of her weight was on her toes, instead of her feet, Aegon realized. And yet he could not hear any moans of pain. “Why are you here, Aegon?”

He found himself chewing for words. “I wanted to…I don’t know. Doing something. Talk.”

“About what?”

“Your brother.” She turned to face him and she looked none too pleased. “I’ve been thinking. On him and Daenerys. I’m not his enemy.”

“Then what are you trying to be then?”

“His king,” Aegon said. “I have a throne to win back, but I can’t do that without the support of Daenerys. And the best way to do that is if she weds me.”

“You say you are not the enemy of my brother, but then you go and talk about stealing the woman he loves away from him.”

Aegon crossed his arms. “I could make him a Stark. His son or daughter by Daenerys could be a Stark.”

“You think that’s what he wants?” She strode across to him. “You think you know what my brother wants?”

“I think I do. All his life he was raised among his brothers and sisters. But you were all trueborn, you all had a place. But what did Jon Snow have?”

“He had the Stark’s blood.”

“Yes, but it was bastard blood. Your lord father was never going to wed him to some highborn daughter. Maybe he’d become the Master-at-Arms at some keep somewhere. Tell me, when your family had feasts, where was Jon seated?” Arya said nothing, but her hard eyes dimmed a little. “When I sit on the Iron Throne, I will remember those that were loyal.”

“And was Jon so loyal? I’ve heard it a hundred times from the others. His union with your aunt is ruining everything.”

“That damn marriage to Khal Drogo is what ruined everything. I didn’t like when Lord Jon told me of it, and I don’t like it now. She’s my aunt, and she was bartered like a heap of flesh. She’s a Targaryen! Wed her to a good man from Lys or Tyrosh if you have to. Not to some warlord.” Aegon rubbed at his head. “Your brother was protecting her, when it should have been me. I won’t forget that.”

A loud wind blew over them then, so loud that Aegon and Arya had to tuck their hair to keep them from flying in their face. “Who it this Jon Connington? He doesn’t speak like the others, so I know he’s not from Essos. And you called him Lord Jon just now.”

 _She’s a smart girl. She had to be, to make it across the Narrow Sea on her own._ “I think he was the closest thing to a friend my father ever had. Certainly was the closest thing to a father that I will ever have. He’s been raising me for...gods, almost my entire life now. He was Hand of the King during the Rebellion, but my grandfather exiled him when he failed to kill King Robert.”

“Perhaps I should thank Lord Jon then.”

Aegon ignored that, although he tightened his fingers into a fist behind his back. “You done? I don’t care for insults, Lady Stark.”

She brunched her brow. “Don’t call me that.”

Aegon smiled. “I thought you would say that. You are nothing like any of the noble ladies that Septa Lemore told me about. I can never imagine you in a dress. Your mother must have had a hell of a time with you.”

“Oh, she did.” Her smile was a wicked thing. “All she wanted was for me to be a proper little lady, to sing my songs and to dance like all the rest.”

“And what did Arya Stark of Winterfell ever want?”

“To get dirty,” she said. “To run through the yard and ride on horses and pick flowers. If it was something that Sansa or my mother wanted me to do, I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted to fight, to beat Robb and Jon and Bran on the head with practice swords. I didn’t want to be stuck in a tower.”

“Well, no offense to you Arya Stark, but I hope we don’t have to fight the Dothraki anytime soon. Do you know anything of these horselords?” She shook her head. “Well, I know more than a thing or two. Scariest thing you will ever see are a hundred Dothraki screamers as they charge on horseback. They ride you down, and when you chase after them they fill the air with arrows.”

Arya looked at him. “How did Prince Aegon Targaryen ever learn about Dothraki screamers?”

“I had to fight them once. It was stupid. Men died because of what I decided in the heat of the moment. Connington had the right of it. I didn’t listen to him.” _Her hair was as red as flame. She would always tease me with that look. “Look at you. Griff, as blue as that hair of yours.”_ Aegon scratched at his face. “So, believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to save my brother,” she said in defiance. “No matter what.”

“And trust me, I am the same. If there is a chance, I will save my family. Daenerys and her child. Your brother as well, if any of the gods are good. A king shouldn’t leave his family behind.”

“For once, Aegon, I think we agree.” From beyond they could hear the trotting of horses. Aegon made his way towards the camp, and he could see a line of men on horseback. They were dressed in the black and gold of the Company, and the bright banner of the speared skull was raised over them. “Looks like your Connington has returned.”

Aegon urged her to follow. “This concerns you just as much as me.”

“An invitation from a prince?” She snorted. “My sister would faint if she knew.”

“Come on,” he urged, and she followed him into the Commanders’ Tent. Jon was just taking off his riding gloves when they entered. “Well?” she demanded. “What did the Volantenes say?’

“Good to see you as well, Lady Arya.” He flung the gloves onto the table. “Myles,” he said as he turned toward the Captain-General. “Do you want to say it, or should I?”

Commander Toyne snorted. “I’d rather not say a word on it. I may choke on it.”

“Then I will,” Jon said, with all the charisma of a decrepit whore. “They will sell us the ships. We will have passage.”

“And what did they ask for in exchange?” Aegon knew something was up. He could taste it in the air.

“Double price on the ships.” Connington let out a weary sigh. “But we have the coffers for it. We are the Golden Company.”

Arya Stark scrunched her nose. “You had the treasury for how many Blackfyre Rebellions? There’s more to this than just paying double for some cogs.”

“Keen as always, Lady Stark,” Connington said all deadpanned. “We agreed to give Daenerys Targaryen to the son of Kalavar Artaga.”

Aegon was all wide eyed. “Who the hell is that? How is he worthy of my aunt?”

“An archon of Volantis, and one of the Old Blood,” answered Jon Connington. There was a sour look on his face. “A step above a Dothraki warlord.”

“He could be a dragonlord from Valyria for all I care,” Aegon seethed. “You are selling her _again_!”

“I would not dare,” Connington said. Aegon saw his blue eyes blaze. “She will never marry him.”

Arya shook her head. “Your right. Because she already has my brother.”

“Hardly,” snorted Myles Toyne. “We bought our passage with a lie. You will still marry your aunt, Aegon. We are going home, one way or another. And if we need to deal with Volantis again…well, Kalavar Artaga has daughters as well. The Conqueror had two wives, why not you?”

“Perhaps,” Aegon said, “because that is wrong. Aegon had three dragons. Two wives hardly compensate. What lord would rise up for me, when they see me defying the Seven like that?”

The Captain-Commander gave Aegon a hard look. “Your Grace, I would not worry about the gods. In my experience, they just fling shit everywhere, and it is up to us to clean up after them. Do your duty, marry your aunt, and leave the gods to the septons.”

 

**THE DAUGHTER OF WINTERFELL**

 

When they sailed into port, the burning tower of Tyrosh blazed against the night sky. “I have heard it said, My Lady, that the tower is one of the great wonders of the world.” Sansa thought that Ser Barristan had the right of it, because what else but a wonder could be lit by fire and not burn? When she first saw the fires, she had demanded it of Captain Groleo. He had let out a loud laugh, as loud as King Robert at the feats in Winterfell.

“Daughter of Westeros,” he said with a smile, “the city is not burning. That is the Burning Tower of Tyrosh! The largest watchtower in all the world. No ship needs fear sailing into the harbors of the city, for the tower is always lit, and guidance is always certain.”

 _That is the one thing that is certain._ A week before the Captain announced that they had to make a stop in Tyrosh, for supplies and whores. “It will be a long journey going into Astapor, and the brandy and bedslaves will keep my sailors at ease. Tyrosh will be the last bit of civilization we will see for some time.”

“I’d rather we just sail straight ahead,” Ser Barristan had said.

“Trust me, knight. A month at sea, with nothing but the waters and the skies over your head, and you will miss Tyrosh as much as a babe misses his mother’s teat.”

The Captain had promised just three days, to fill their stocks and for his men to satisfy their wants of whores. That felt too long by Ser Barristan’s timing, and Sansa could not help but agree. “It is only three days, My Lady, but that feels too long to me by far,” he had said to her beneath the deck of the _Saduleon_. “Every minute that passes places your brother and Princess Daenerys in danger.”

“I know, but it is a long journey to Astapor. I’ve seen the maps – we will be crossing by the ruins of Valyria.” The knight had nodded at that, and Sansa saw a flicker of fear in his eyes. “Are all that I heard true?”

“That depends on what you have heard.” The sea had rocked the ship, and the _Saduleon_ groaned. “Men of the sea say many things, Lady Stark, and most of them cannot be trusted.”

“Ghosts in the stone,” she began, “men of rock and flesh, demons that prowl the haunted lands.” They all sounded as foolish as the stories that Old Nan would say, but this was fallen Valyria. Everyone knew that a dark storm always stirred over the Smoking Sea. Even Maester Luwin had told her how none in Essos travelled into Valyria – and if not for demons that prowled those cursed shores, what else? Even the maesters would admit with reluctance that greyscale emerged from Vakyria.

“Valyria is just a place, Lady Sansa.” He was trying to assure her, but even Sansa could hear the tint of fear in his voice. “The seas of Valyria will be no more dangerous than the ones around Tyrosh or even Astapor.”

“The people,” she said, “are the true danger. Is that what you are trying to say, Ser?”

Barristan looked at her with his gray blue eyes. “We do not know what awaits us in Astapor. I do not mean to frighten you, Lady Starl-“

“Ser Barristan.” She looked back at him, with the bright blue of her eyes, and with as hard of a voice as she could summon. “Tell me, true.”

And for a moment, the Knight looked at her as if he did not know who she was. _I am the daughter of Eddard Stark. I must be as sure as my Lord Father, and as brave as my Lady Mother._ “Then I will not shield you from my doubts. The Captain’s men may very well turn on us, if they feel it is a death sentence.”

“I thought the Captain was a man we could trust.”

The ship let out another groan. “I want to say the same. But the Captain is Ilyrio Mopatis’ man first, Sansa.” _That is the truth of it. We are sailing on the_ Saduleon _only because the Magister gifted it to us._ “And even is Groleo is true, what of his men? Even you must have heard the tales of sailors turning on their captain when all hope is lost.”

“Hope is not lost,” she said. “Not yet.”

“No,” said the knight. “I will hold true, until I am done and spent. But, My Lady, we must be careful. We must always be careful.”

When they docked into the harbors of Tyrosh, Captain Groleo insisted that he guide her and Ser Barristan into the city. “It is said that the city was made as a fortress for the Valyrian dragonlords. It’s streets are like a maze, Ser Barristan. I would not see you lost.”

_We won’t get lost, but where would you take us?_

From the top deck of the cog, the Captain pointed towards the city. “Look at those walls, as dark as night. Do you know what that is?”

“Dragonglass,” Sansa said quickly. She had never seen the material, but she heard enough about it. The darkest thing a man can hold in his arms, as shining as the most beautiful emeralds, none knew how to forge it. “The dragonlords of Valyria used them.”

“The lady is well read,” the Pentoshi said with a smile. _The lady would only listen to stories._ “Yes, beyond those dark walls is the inner heart of the city.”

“And will you guide us there?” Ser Barristan crossed his hands against his chest.

Groleo snorted. “Me? Nonsense. I am a captain of ships. I don’t have the right to enter that place. You need a certain amount of wealth and prosperity to share drinks with the magisters of the city.”

“There are magisters?” asked Sansa, “here in Tyrosh?”

“Lady Stark,” said the Captain, “there are magisters everywhere. In all of Essos, there are men who earned their place with their wealth. As well as with their treachery, if you know my meaning.”

 _More than you know, Captain Groleo._ “And Illyrio Mopatis. How did he earn the title of magister?”

“That is a question I wish I knew. The entire of Pentos wish they knew, especially the other magisters. Illyrio Mopatis is an enigma. A true mystery, that one. He wed another magister’s sister, you know, and then he married a slave.”

 _Serra, the one with the hand of stone._ “He had told us as such. Her name was Serra.”

The Captain’s eyes took on a somber look. “I have no doubt. Her death has raked his heart, but give him half a chance and he will say everything about that woman.” He scratched at his salt-and-pepper beard. “Well, everything except the fruit of their union. He’ll never speak of their son.”

 _No doubt. To lose both a wife and a son, in such a short time, it is a wonder he still had the will to live. How long was his baby boy? A year, two or three? He saw the light in his son’s eyes, only for it to be put out forever._ “And now he fights for the Targaryens.”

“You heard the man,” said Ser Barristan. “He would become Master of Coin under Daenerys Targaryen.”

_Is that the only thing to be gained for this magister in Pentos? The right to manage the coins of my home?_

In the end, Ser Barristan accepted the Captain’s invitation, and Sansa accompanied them both. Groleo explained that the city was built like a spiral. “It all falls back to when Tyrosh was an island fortress for Valyria. The highest point, with those dragonstone walls, are where the dragonlords would reside. I heard there was a pit where they would chain their dragons, but gods know I have never seen them. The wealthier the street, the higher you are from the ground. Heed my advice, Lady Stark – should you ever marry a rich Tyroshi, get used to heights.”

“It’s a wonder any would war with the city,” Ser Barristan said. “Islands are difficult enough to besiege. Twice in my life I had to attempt the task, and after both I prayed I never would again.”

“Take it from someone who lived on the sea. You don’t take the island. You take the sea. Tyrosh relies on the Disputed Lands for food and resources. How many trees do you count?”

Sansa looked around. From the railing of the streets she could make our carts and ships on the horizon, the faint shape of gulls as they hovered over the coastline, and houses built with pink and yellow bricks. But no trees. “None,” she said. “I don’t see any.”

“No fruits grow here, save for in the yards of the richest magisters and priests. A funny thing, that you will find Tyroshi grown tomatoes and grapes beyond the black walls. Dragons plant no trees, and yet their walls protect them.”

“That is not true.” Ser Barristan became very still. “The Targaryens brought peace and prosperity to Westeros. They united all the kingdoms.”

“Forgive me Ser.” The Captain shifted the hat on his head. Sansa noticed that the leather was salt licked, and was just as much white as it was brown. “That was not what I meant.”

The knight sighed. “I know what you meant, Captain. Where are we going?”

At that he had smiled. “Surely, you both must tire of sleeping on the narrow bunks aboard the _Saduleon?”_

Indeed they had, and by the time Sansa saw the wooden sign of _The Merman’s Wife,_ her heart was skipping. She would never fault Captain Groleo for skimping on accommodations. He had made her and Ser Barristan as comfortable as was in his power, but a ship was nothing compared to an estate. And a narrow bunk in a hold was a flimsy thing against a mattress filled with feathers.

_A bed! With blankets woven from heavy wool! And pillows stuffed with feathers! And not a single groan from the ship!_

As they made their way across the floor of the inn, taking in the hot aroma of the food that was served and the sweet music that was played on lyres and flutes, Sansa noticed that the Tyroshi dressed in every color imaginable. Blue and gold and purple were their garments, just as was their hair and their beards. The ladies had dashed on their lashes purple paints, and the men would coat the tips of their beards in yellow and crimson. She had heard that the Tyroshi were extravagant, but Sansa could only think that they looked utterly ridicules. _A lady’s armor is in her smiles._ But the more she smiled, the more out of place she surely looked. So she just kept her face flat and plain, and did her best to not giggle when she saw a boy with green whiskers waltz by.

Captain Groleo did not mince words with the innkeep, a poortly man with purple hair and blue whiskers that were curled. He insisted on three rooms, and only haggled with the man once. _He must be as tired as the Ser and I._ He gently laid the keys into her hand. “Were you listening to the Tyroshi, My Lady?”

“Up the stairs, third door on the left.”

“Then I bid you good night. I for one, am going to sleep through it all.”

Sansa said she would do the same, but she didn’t sleep through the night. She sank into her bed, allowed the warmth and softness of the comforters to overwhelm her, wrapped her toes in the blankets, smothered her arms, and slumbered through the night. The bed wasn’t as wide as the one she had in the Red Keep, and it wasn’t as familiar as the one in Winterfell. But it was a bed, a _real_ bed, and for that moment Sansa thought there was no finer one in the entire world.

She was so submerged into her sleep that the light that filtered in through the windows would not wake her. It was the pounding by Ser Barristan on her door. When she opened the door, the knight let out a relieved sigh. “You did not answer,” he explained in haste, “and I had begun to suspect –“

“I slept too well, I think.” _I could wish for a few hours more. Or a few days. Perhaps a year or two. Wasn’t there a song about a princess of the Reach that had to be awaken by a kiss?_ She wiped away at her eyes. “Ser, what is it?”

Barristan Selmy fidgeted. “Nothing,” he said as he folded his hands behind him. “I just felt weary of this place.”

“Ser,” she said, “it’s an inn. Not the Red Keep.” _The Spider is not here. His little birds are nowhere in sight._

At that he narrowed his eyes. “That means nothing. Do not forget who brought us here, and whom he works for.” Ser Barristan turned his gaze as a man and woman stumbled out of their rooms, the pair drunken and lost as they giggled their way down the hall. She motioned for him to enter her room. “So long as we linger here, you should not be Sansa Stark.”

“Then whom shall I be, in Tyrosh?”

He considered that for a moment. “A name that is not Northern. A name that does not suggest who you are.”

“Manisa,” she said quickly. Ser Barristan looked at her. “If you truly fear for spies, how many would suspect me to take on the name of my grandmother? There aren’t any Manisas in the North.”

The Ser nodded in approval. “Shrewd action, My Lady.”

“And if we must be somebody else, then I shall be your daughter.”

He blinked at that. “My…what?”

“Ser, do you not find it suspicious for a young lady to be in the company of an older gentlemen? If I am your beautiful daughter, that is one less question to answer.”

Barristan Selmy hesitated. “That is true. But why would a Westerosi and his daughter be in Tyrosh?”

She considered that, but the idea quickly sprang to mind. “A little bit of the truth. You were a knight born in the Crownlands, and you were loyal to the Targaryens for all your life. With their fall, you could not accept the Usurper’s rule. So you fled with your family here.”

“A little truth in the lie?”

“More than a little, I suspect. Even as you watched my grandfather and uncle be murdered, you stayed true to the Targaryens.” Ser Barristan bristled. “When you saw Rhaegar on the Trident, did you ever ask him why he stole my aunt?”

“He did not,” Barristan Selmy said quickly. He took a few quick steps towards her. “I do not know what you have heard of him, but Rhaegar did not abduct Lyanna Stark. That was not him.”

“Ser,” she said, “the entire world knows what Rhaegar Targaryen did to my aunt.”

“The entire world does not know him.” Ser Barristan cletched his fingers into a fist. “Why now? Weeks and weeks you had to ask.”

“Because I do not know his sister.” _Daenerys Targaryen is the Mad King’s daughter. The scion of the man that ordered Rickard Stark to be fed to the flames. The king that demanded for my father’s head._ “None of us do. Except for Jon – he knows her, he loves her, they created life together.”

“Is that not enough? Do you not trust your brother?”

“Elia Martell trusted Rhaegar. Everyone has heard that story.” She crossed her arms across her chest. “He crowned Lyanna, and shamed Elia, and then all the smiles died.”

 

**THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL**

 

The pyre was built and set to fire on the third day after they had discovered Drogo’s corpse. It would have been sooner, but the slaves had to truly dig deep for them to find enough wood to build the pyre. There wasn’t much left of the man, if Jon had to be honest. Whatever beast found him as he staggered through the woods, dying from a poisoned death that was long overdue, had its fill. Jon had no love for the Khal, but he would have preferred that he had just died quietly from the poisons. To be torn apart by beasts is a death far too cruel.

And yet, Dany had relished in it. She had hugged the hakkar pelt close when she told him the news. The only time Jon had seen her happier was when she told him of their son. _My son will live. I will get to hold him, to watch him grow._ His scarred hand had twitched at that.

Cohollo had brushed against him. His tanned face was filled with fury. “Move along Andal!” he roared behind his broken teeth. He stomped away before Jon could say anything, barking and spewing out orders to what men remained of his khas.

“The man saw his death,” Dany explained earlier in her tent. “A khal and his bloodriders are of one mind. ‘Blood of my blood’. With Drogo dead, they have one duty. To avenge him.”

“He was killed by a beast,” Jon said, “How are they going to avenge that? By killing anything with tooth or claw they find?”

“Maybe,” Dany suggested. She had placed a hand over her belly. “It won’t matter. Our son is safe. We are safe.”

Safe from the fury of the Khal. But Jon knew that a dead man wasn’t their concern. It was those that still lived. The Golden Horde was being split into a dozen different khalasars right before his eyes. Jhaqo had declared himself a khal, as had another named Pono. Both men had once sworn to serve the Khal of Khals, but now riders young and old swarmed to them, eager to serve men of strength. And those were the khals of note – there were dozens more that had named themselves a khal, and were swarmed by those eager for glory.

And all still believed that Daenerys was about to give birth to Drogo’s son.

“It is half a miracle that Tareoh Neh Khaluk is still willing to serve you.”

“Perhaps he feels it worthy to protect a woman heavy with child?” Jon was not convinced. “I suppose not. Still, I will take his arakhs.”

Ser Jorah entered through the tent then. “Princess,” he said respectfully, “they shall light the fires soon.”

Daenerys was nestled among a mountain of pillows and cushions. Irri and Jhiqui had been adamant that the Khaleesi not move, with the child so close to being born. Jon saw some wisdom in that, but Daenerys was frustrated whenever Jon insisted she stay still. “I am pregnant, not a dying cow,” she had said. Still, Daenerys was laying in her tent.

“I will join them when I can escape my handmaids’ unrelenting gaze.” She turned towards Jhiqui.

“Apologies Khaleesi,” the woman bowed her head. “But we wish only what is best for the Khalakka. And for you, of course.” _Khalakka? To what khalasar?_ The Golden Horde was breaking apart. Even if it was Khal Drogo’s son that Daenerys carried, there would be nothing for the babe to lead.

“Daenerys, how much of your khas are still loyal to you?”

She frowned. “Not much. I am certain that Jhogo, Rakharo and Aggo still feel inclined to protect me. At least until my son is born. But after that, nothing is certain.”

 _Not all things are uncertain._ He wanted to hold her hand and tell her that he would keep the both of them safe. “You and the boy will live. That much is certain.”

Dany smiled. “I wish I shared your confidence, Jon Snow. You know that my mother died bringing me into the world?”

 _And a storm devoured what remained of your father’s fleet as you screamed for the first time._ “That will not be your fate. You are not your mother.” _You are not your father._

Dany sent him ahead to the pyre, with Jorah Mormont in tow. She insisted she would join him to watch her husband’s remains be burned. In return, Jon insisted that she keep Ghost with her. “Just as when Drogo was my husband?”

“Just as when your life was not certain,” Jon stated. She had relented after that.

The slaves had accumulated a pitiful pyre. The Astapori had already set most of the forest to fire and smoke, leaving behind only smoldering twigs and brittle grass. Khal Drogo had fashioned himself an emperor of a new world, but his funeral was just a pile of thin branches and clumps of grass. It would burn, but slowly. The Dothraki believed a man would climb the smoke to the Night Lands beyond. If that were true, Khal Drogo would have a slow and difficult climb.

Jon wondered just how much the Dothraki truly revered Khal Drogo. In life they swore their arakhs and their loyalties, but the audience was flimsy and uninspiring, made up of boys who had not seen a single victory, their mothers and sisters, and old men. _Khal Drogo forced them to fight together._ “Make your men know you, or they will never die for you.” As Jon looked around the funeral pyre, he knew Father had the truth of it.

In the distance, Jon saw Khal Jhaqo and Pono looking into the small fires. There was little reverence in his eyes. If anything, they looked like hungry hounds. “It will come to blows soon enough,” Ser Jorah cautioned. He kept the reins tight on his courser.

“Between the two khals?”

“Between someone. Keep your sword close, bastard. And pray the Princess doesn’t labor until after the blood is spilled.”

Oddly enough, it wasn’t the khals that concerned Jon. It was Bloodbeard and his Company of the Cat. The mercenary was enraged with the death of Drogo. “I was promised payment!” he had howled at some meek slaves. “I gave up profits in the Disputed Lands for this!” Just the day before some of his men had gotten into a brawl with some Dothraki. Two of the Cat were dead, with four Dothraki put to grass. Bloodbeard had to hang two more to appease some of the newly made khals that outnumbered him.

The man was unpredictable, and worst yet his eyes had a hollow look to them. Jon couldn’t put it into words, but whenever Bloodbeard gazed upon him, it felt he was looking past Jon, into him, reading his soul like it was a book to be read, and only Bloodbeard had the eyes for it.

There were so few that Jon knew to trust. There was Doreah, of course. A thousand times she could have betrayed him and Dany, and she never took a single opportunity. And Jon in his bones knew that he could trust No-Eyes. Jorah Mormont seemed to serve Daenerys well enough, but the man was a craven and a slaver. Some days Jon wished he would finish what Father started. _Perhaps the man will give me the chance._

“Would any of Tareoh Neh Khaluk’s men listen to you?”

Mormont’s eyes narrowed. “What do you think, Jon Snow?”

“Then tell Dany to tell the man that his Rams need to keep an eye out for the Cats.” He turned Shadow and trot away from the pyre.

“And where are you going, Snow?”

“To find some answers of my own!”

Jon looked up into the sky as he rode through the ashen forest. The comet was ripping through the heavens, a burning sword to cut through the darkness. Dany had insisted that the red comet was a sign of their son, a culmination of fire and ice. But she was a Targaryen, and they had always favored prophecies. The Starks never saw any value in such things. The comet just filled him with dread. _Comets are fire, and fires burn at anything they touch._ The comet was the brightest that it had ever been. For almost a year it had been in the sky – and instead of dimming with age, it grew, brighter, bolder, more beautiful, and more ominous with every moon.

It didn’t take him long to find No-Eyes. He was leaning against the tree where Drogo was found, his wrinkled hands wrapped in a grip around his stick. Jon was almost half certain that the man hadn’t heard him. He didn’t turn his head as he spoke. “Andal. I was wondering when you would come. Here to reprimand me on missing my Khal’s funeral.”

“You have no eyes to see them with.” Jon climbed off from Shadow. “I was hoping to talk.”

“Then see hopes fulfilled.” The man sighed. “Talk.”

Jon had come to speak of Bloodbeard. No-Eyes could get a sense of a person that a normal man could only dream of. But seeing the man laying among the ashes of the forest, Jon felt other concerns rise up. “You are not the reason why Drogo died.”

“Are you so certain?” No-Eyes turned his gaze to him. Even though shielded by that folded cloth, Jon could feel the abyss of the man’s eyes peer into him.

“I am.” Jon dismounted from Shadow. “The man was killed by savage beasts. Who knew that they would stay so close when the forest was burned?”

“Do you honestly believe that? That just mere beasts had slain Khal Drogo?”

 _No. It was the poison._ Jon didn’t know how, but Doreah’s poisons had taken root. He remembered how savagely Drogo had filled the hakkar with arrows. Jon flexed his scarred hand. “It was more than beasts. Hezzare had his knife well and deep. Drogo was too haunted by what that man did.”

“They were brothers. And one betrayed the other.” No-Eyes sighed. “Just as a wife betrayed her husband.” Jon felt his breath get caught up in his throat. “I knew the slave was lying when I spoke with her. Just as I knew you were lying when you offered to cut your own throat at Drogo’s feet. Did the Khaleesi not tell you that she got the poisons from me?” Jon could not find the words. “I suppose not. I know what kind of man Drogo was. He was his father come again, despite all my attempts. He wanted to rule just for the sake of ruling. I held him in my arms, when he was just a babe. I loved him, Jon. And I helped in his murder. What fate do the gods have for such a man as I?”

“One of your making.” _What would Father say to this? The man broke his oath of loyalty to the Khal, but the Khal was an evil man. Was that justified?_ He thought on the scene of when Father found Tywin Lannister sitting on the Iron Throne. _But No-Eyes rests on no throne, and I am not the warrior my father was._ “I swore to free you from your oath, but you fulfilled that yourself.” He forced a smile to his lips. “I am a wretched student, Ezzolat. I can’t even keep my promises to you.”

“You are a deceiver and a trickster, and gave my Khal the horns. And despite it all, a better man than him. For all your talks of honor, and seeking our lordly father’s affections, you are a confusing man, Jon Snow.”

“As are you, Ezzolat. You talk of honor, and yet you helped Daenerys murder Drogo.”

“What kind of man would condemn a mother to death? Condemn his student and his friend to the same fate? You swore you would free me, despite how you would prefer to just flee from the Horde with Daenerys in your arms. I may not have eyes, but I am not blind. I know what kind of man Drogo was.”

Jon approached No-Eyes and knelt at his side. “And I know what kind of man you are. If you were born in the North of Westeros, my Lord Father would be honored to call you companion. As is, you are my teacher.” He laid a hand on his shoulder. “And my friend.”

No-Eyes smiled. “You are almost making me regret beating you to a near pulp. Know that is a rare thing, Jon Snow.”

“It is known,” Jon smiled. But then his eyes hardened. “I would speak of Bloodbeard.”

No-Eyes frowned. “The man is a beast. If you thought Drogo was bloodthirsty-“

“The sellsword is far worse, I know. That’s what I’m worried about. With Daenerys –“

“About to give birth to your child?” No-Eyes had an amused look on his face. “Come now Jon. I’m blind, not stupid. If they had eyes like I do, the entire khalasar would have known. Then again, perhaps it is good that Drogo only had one that knew the Path.” No-Eyes scratched at his cheek. “I would not put much trust in the other Dothraki. They would be more likely to kill the child. They won’t suffer a khalakka without a Khal.”

“Even if it the babe isn’t Drogo’s?”

“Then they’ll kill all of you for cheating the Khal behind his back. And for playing them for fools. It is good that the Khaleesi managed to secure those Rams. They’ll probably itch to kill a few of the Dothraki.”

“And there is still the Company of the Cat.”

“The new khals may at least flee to avoid the wrath of the Astapori. Without the unity of the Horde, the Unsullied fill the Dothraki with fear. The sellswords can integrate with the Astapori guard easily enough. But that Bloodbeard wants to be true to his name. Tread careful Jon. My charms won’t sway him.”

Jon shook his head. “I don’t think anyone could charm Bloodbeard out of something that he didn’t want. If I could persuade Tareoh Neh Khaluk to charge against the Company of the Cat-“

“It would not be certain,” No-Eyes said.

“Nothing is certain.” Jon clasped No-Eyes on the shoulder and rose to his feet. _If I could know why the Lhazareen are still loyal to Dany, I could use that to persuade him. But Dany won’t say a word on her ‘promise’. She insists that she trust me, but she keeps so much hidden from me._ He saw Irri rush towards him. “Andal!” she hollered. “Jon Snow!”

“Irri?” He took a few steps towards her. He saw Ghost in the distance, his red eyes gleaming. “What is it?”

“The Khaleesi! Her water has broke!”

 

**THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE**

 

Her fever dreams were shadowed by wings.

She was walking down a hall she had never known. It was not Illyrio’s manse. The walls were dark and slick like wet stone. Behind her was only darkness, only shadow, but in front of her she could see the threads of light. She could not look back or she would be lost forever.

_“…dragon.”_

She was on a snow crested plain. She had never seen snow, but she knew what it was. White and playful. Jon held her in his strong arms, kissed her neck, stroked her sex, talked of how good everything will be. Walls of stone and steam rose from the earth, and the stars twinkled and smiled down on her, and she saw the face. Jon entered her, and she felt so warm and good as his seed coursed through her. The face loomed over her, eyes like stars staring into her. “Beware of all but the Wolf.”

Viserys lashed out at her with his fingers, as quick as whips. “You don’t want to wake the dragon, do you slut?” His teeth were sharp and narrow, and she could see his tongue slit. He was a monster, a creature, a nightmare, and he lashed her so fiercely that her things became thick with blood. “I am the dragon. Do you command me? You stole my life, but you can never command me.” Then his eyes flowed with streaks of flame, and he raked at his belly as jets of fire burst forth like a red sword.

_“…the dragon.”_

She saw Ser Jorah. “The last dragon died, child. Rhaegar was the last dragon. Now there are only snakes.” Then the darkness shifted and twisted and hissed, and coiled around her, and Dany felt cold, so cold, and goose pimples danced across her naked flesh. The darkness reached the eggs, but the coals were bright and hot and fierce, and the shadow slithered away in defeat. “The last dragon,” he whispered, as frail as the wind, weaker than dust.

In the distance, she saw the red door, and could almost smell the lemon tree, but it was further now than it ever was.

She screamed and kicked and struggled. She slipped from the scaled shadows, and she heard a hiss so terrible it would tear her mind apart. She felt the cold behind her, and she felt a frost creep behind her feet. She ran, as fast as she could, but her ankles were raw with blood. She could almost see the red door, and smell the coast of Braavos, but they seemed so distant now, so far away, always out of reach.

_“…wake the dragon.”_

Then she felt the flame in her breast, in her womb, and she almost crumpled to the floor from the pain. She saw Jon seated before her, resting on a throne carved out of a pale wood. “What do you want with a throne made out of swords? The Kings in Winter sat in the world.” And he tapped at the seat next to him, and she saw it was carved from the same wood, and resting on his head was a crown cut from the white bark. Only it wasn’t Jon, but someone so much like him. His eyes were violet. _My son! My glorious son! You live! You are home. I brought you home._ Her son smiled sadly, and he drifted away like snow.

Then the world was aflame. Wood snarled and twisted and broke and caved under the heat and she saw dark wings beat over her. And the dragon had eyes of gold and breath of black hot wrath. The red door had vanished, the smell of lemons gone. There was only sulfur and ash and fire.

In the shadow was Quaithe in her lacquered mask. “Who is the last dragon?” she asked. Daenerys Targaryen removed the mask and she gazed upon her own face.

_“Will you wake the dragon?”_

Her head was hot and wet, slickened by sweat, and she felt a damp cloth. She opened her eyes and saw Doreah looming over her, his golden hair stuck to her face. As the image became clear, Doreah sighed. “Khaleesi, you awake.”

“How long have I slept?” She knew she had passed out from the pain. She remembered how the water trickled down her thighs, Jon’s desperate face, Doreah and Irri demanding he stay away. “My son? Where is my-“

Doreah shook her head. Dany could see Irri twisting a rag over a steaming pot. “He will come, Khaleesi.” Dany arched her head, and she saw her womb, full and round beneath the sheets. “Birth is patient. And bloody, but mostly be patient.”

“Be strong, Khaleesi,” Irri insisted. She clasped Dany’s hand. “You are strong. Baby will be strong too.”

She felt the heat swarm through her head. “Who yet remains?”

“The Lhazareen are loyal still, Khaleesi.” Irri padded away the sweat at her brow. “Jon Snow has accompanied a party of them to deal with Khal Pono.”

“What does Pono want?”

“He has sworn to take the life of your son, Khaleesi. Jon Snow will put him to grass.”

“How many men are loyal to Khal Pono?” She remembered little of Pono, except that the man was short sighted and stupid, and boasted none of Drogo’s charisma.

“More than a hundred riders belong to him,” Jhiqui answered. “Or maybe a little bit more. But all of the Rams that ride with Jon are experienced.”

“I can account to that.” She saw Tareoh duck beneath the flaps of the tent. “The three-hundred I gathered can deal with any of these Dothraki. How goes the babe?”

“Being stubborn and not yet born,” she groaned. “Who else moves against me?”

“Not too many. The Shepard watches over you yet.” The man smiled. “Jhaqo has moved his khalasar to greener pastures…one preferably not in the shadow of Astapor. In truth, I fear for Lhazar. Many of my Rams fear they will return to burning villages and raped sisters.”

“As soon as my son is born,” she began, “we can ride…”

“You are not riding anywhere. You had an army tens of thousands strong when your husband lived. Now you have old men and boys greener than grass.”

“If that is true, then why remain? You have men dying for a fool cause.”

“You have Jon Snow to thank for that?”

“Jon?” she asked. “How did he convince you?”

“He talked to us,” he smiled. Dany gave the man a hard look – she was not in the mood for games. “The Andal convinced us that we had no chance alone. We were surrounded by Dothraki, and everyone knows what a horselord thinks of a sheep.”

“Even a sheep with horns?”

“Especially a sheep with horns. We will only survive this by standing together. But once the danger passes, we will go our separate ways. The men I collected will return to their villages, or perhaps they will find work with a company. As for myself…well, perhaps I shall follow the wind? But for now, I think of living. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, as they say.”

“Then find out how many friends your enemy has,” she breathed. “Find me Jhogo, Aggo, and Rakharo.”

“Should be an easy task. I’ll just need to follow my nose. All these Dothraki stink like their horses.” He tapped his nose for good measure and left the tent. Almost as soon as he had left, Dany felt the burning pain course through her. She felt Doreah grip her shoulders and Irri gave a command, but all words were lost under the hot wave that waked over her.

By the time Tareoh returned with her riders, the pain was swept away. _And my son has still not entered the world._ She thought of her mother, and how Queen Rhaella gave up her life so that she could be born. _It is as Jon said. I am not my mother. My son will know me. I will live_. “You summoned us, Khaleesi?” Aggo’s tone was respectful if nothing else. She saw the solemn glances from Jhogo, and Rakharo was almost frowning behind his dripping mustache. _They see me as a weak woman. A Khal who cannot ride cannot lead._

She tried to imagine how her father would have spoken to his vessels. “I did. I am Khaleesi still. I would hear your words of loyalty to me. Will you be my bloodriders, become the blood of my blood?”

“Khaleesi,” Rakharo said, “none would ride for a Khaleesi. There is no glory in it.”

“If the Dosh Khaleen remained,” Aggo said, “I would ride you to Vaes Dothrak to ensure your safety. But they are gone now. I can offer you a prayer to the Great Stallion, that you will be protected. But nothing more.”

“I would prefer your bow.” Aggo remained silent. “And you, Jhogo? Jon is your friend. You dragged him to many winesinks. He welcomed your advice. I would have your whip and your blade.”

“Khaleesi,” Jhogo said, “it is because of Jon that I am here. I would see you and your son live for a few years. But after that I would leave. I need to seek out a Khal worth riding for. No man will ride for a khaleesi.”

They left soon after, bowing their heads in respect of the husband that she was sold to. She had wanted three bloodriders. Three would show all of the Khals that she was a woman to be feared. They would think twice about riding upon her. But she could not even get one. _I cannot be a lamb led to the slaughter. I need to be a dragon. I must be the mother of a dragon._ But as she remained in her bed, the ripping pain tearing through her, with Doreah and Irri insisting that she must push, Dany could not imagine how.

 

**A KNOWING MAN**

 

When No-Eyes imagined Drogo’s pyre, he saw the fires of the temple. The black and gray spoke rose like pillars into the sky, the scarlet flames dancing against the black clouds. It was believed among the Dothraki that fire was the only way to send a man into the beyond. A horselord should not be food for worms. He should not be returned to the roots and the mud. The Dothraki take and steal. Why would they change that in death? The fires are the steps that they shall ascend to the Nightlands.

He could smell the smoke. He was surrounded by the dead, he realized. Drogo was dead, and so was the forest. How many birds and beasts had perished in the flames of Astapor? The bones of butchered slaves were deep beneath the earth, without a doubt. _A strange form of afterlife, where the dead and the living mingle together._

Many more would die. There was no doubt in that. With the death of the Khal, dozens more would rise. Most of them would be slaughtered, but a few would become the warlords of new khalasars. How many silver bells would chime for a final time in this forest of the dead? _Who will build your pyres, and lit you to flames? How will you climb into the Night Lands?_

The dead would be a banquet for worms, while the living would ride off to seek their fortunes. Drogo envisioned a new Dothraki, just as his father had. _Your dreams are smoke now, Bharbo. They died with your son._ And it was No-Eyes that laid the killing blow. The Andal and the Khaleesi would insist that it was all them, that they had conspired against the Khal, that they had procured the poisons.

Was Drogo’s pyre reserved for he alone? Perhaps the rungs of the smoky ladders were wide enough for all the dead. They could ascend to the Night Lands together, khal and khalasar, as they allowed the fires to lift them away. Would Drogo look down on him as he left the world behind? _What words do you have for me, Khal?_ There would be no forgiveness in him, No-Eyes knew that much. Too much of the father in the son.

 _I will remember you. The memories of the boy are too strong for me to resist. Your stubborn refusals of my teachings are hooked into my heart._ For years and years No-Eyes knew he would never father son. By the vows of his priesthood, and by the demands of Khal Bharbo, the dream of a son would forever be beyond him. And yet, No-Eyes had loved the boy. He had never dreaded the lessons, only when they would come to an end.

All the lessons were ended, forever. When No-Eyes put the poison into the Khaleesi’s hands, he knew what would happen. _Bharbo, will you welcome your son into the Night Lands?_ He imagined Bharbo astride the stallion of fire and smoke, and with all of the khals he had killed riding behind him. In life they were foes…and what would they be in death? Ghosts and specters, wayward souls searching for peace and passage. The Dothraki never said what awaited them in the Night Lands – only that is where they were destined.

_Ride on Drogo and leave me behind, to whatever end._

He did not stay to bear blind witness to Drogo’s body being consumed by flames. _You did this to me_ whispered the voices. _I murdered you_ he answered back. No-Eyes found himself wandering the camps. Where once they were united behind the Khal of Khals, now they were bickering and declaring their oaths to new khals. These khals would be raised in the shadows of the Golden Horde, shall arms themselves with the corpse of that dream. How many of these Dothraki shall die meaningless deaths? _How many did I kill with your murder?_ The battle scarred and the hairless boys with no bells in their hair would be counted in their numbers.

He heard a similar step, lagging behind of his own. He turned. “Cohollo?”

“Priest,” he said in a harsh tone. “What are you doing?”

He shrugged. “Wandering. I could not watch the fires. I could not bear it. Not that I had the ability to besides.” A bitter laugh escaped him.

“The hunt begins soon.” Cohollo shifted in his steps. There was a nervousness in it. “We will hunt down every hakkar we can find.”

“And when there are no more to be found?” Cohollo was silent. It was a rare moment when that bloodrider would not laugh or holler. No-Eyes supposed that facing one’s death would inspire more than a few moments of silence. “What would you have of me, Cohollo?”

“Farewells.” No-Eyes felt the man lay a clumsy and heavy hand on his shoulder. “And do you remember Chajita?”

He thought on that for a moment. She was a slave from the Summer Islands, one part of many in Drogo’s harem. “I remember.”

“Tell her something for me. Say that…if I were not the blood of his blood, I would have been a better man than I was.”

By the time No-Eyes would reach Vaes Sash, it would be a poor shadow of the city it once was. A dozen khalasars would have reached it by the time he did. Thousands would be given to the flame, and ten times that would be put into irons and fetters. But it would do no good to say such things. “I will tell her, Cohollo. But it would be a lie. Out of all his bloodriders, I respected you the most.”

“I know. I am afraid I will not see you again, No-Eyes.”

“As am I. In this life or the next. Farewell, Cohollo.” The man was silent, for a moment, for an eternity. Then No-Eyes heard the brittle grasses being crushed beneath his boots, and the blood of Droogo stepped away, further and further, until his passing was a silent thing.

His wanderings through the camps must have just as silent, for why else would no other disturb him? He heard the cries and the hollers, the whining of horses and the rolling of barrels. _What is a blind man, compared to the blood that is about to be spilled? What kind of price could I fetch? Not even a handful of coppers, I’m sure._

No-Eyes wondered if he should remain. Men would be looking at him, men who had thought that a Lhazareen with gorged out eyes had remained too high in the favor of the Khal of Khals for too long, men who had no khal to hold them back. If anything, they would be encouraged. If anything, they would be khals in their own right by now.

Perhaps that is what the fates had destined for him. _If you want to kill me, find me._ He felt the wind whip at his hair, felt the coldness seep into the cloth wrapped around his face. He had killed Drogo so that Jon may live, so that the Khaleesi could bring her child into the world. He made his way for the edge of the war camp, as far from the Khaleesi’s tent as he could.

 _I know the Path, and the Path knows me._ But he knew so little of himself. A year ago he never would have considered allowing Drogo to die. A year ago he never would have considered an Andal his friend. A year ago he was the Khal’s man.

A year ago he was a different man.

 _Am I a man? Is that what I am? Is that a title I have any claim to?_ A man did not kneel at the feet of another, did not allow his actions to be decided by words, he was not deceived, he was not broken, he was not blind. A man had worth.

What worth could be said of a man with no eyes? If there were gods, and if they would look upon him, they point and laugh. _What a creature is he! We gave men eyes so they could look upon our wonders, and all he sees is darkness!_

What more could be said of him? No-Eyes defied his master, and gave up all he could to save his friend. _My life, for the lives of Jon Snow and the Khaleesi. More than worth the price._ What more could he do for the Khaleesi? _I killed your husband. The rest is up to you._

He felt a cold breeze tickle at his neck. Was he standing on a cliff? He supposed it was possible. The earth at his feet were rough and coarse, not at all like the soft and sunken ground in the forest. One step and he would fall. _The Khaleesi spoke of dragons. Would you imagine you could awaken them from those eggs of stone? Do you have flying dreams? Perhaps I should experience one for myself._

One step and his life would be done. _One step and I would see the man again. Would it be Bharbo or Iargo that I would find?_

He heard the tumbling of pebbles and stone. No-Eyes turned, and the scent of wet dog rolled over him. _Not dog. Wolf._ “Ghost?” he rasped.

The beast was as silent as his namesake. Jon had said that his gaze was unnerving to most, but No-Eyes couldn’t say how true that was. A wolf’s silent stare has no effect on a man with no eyes. _One small thing of gratitude._

He heard the beast approach. His paws padded over the stones and rocks. “What are you doing here, wolf?” Ghost, as ever, was silent. “Fool me, to ask a wolf for answers. Did Jon Snow send you? He must have. What else would bring you from his side?”

The wind howled past him. The stones shifted as the wolf turned in his steps. “Where are you padding off to?” The wolf did not stop to heed him. “Ghost? Ghost! Damn fool wolf. Should listen when a man speaks. Or is only Snow that you heed?”

Against his better nature, he followed. _Death can claim me another day. All of the yesterdays have given me a hundred deaths. I may walk off that cliff tomorrow. But today, I will follow the wolf._ If Jon Snow had need of him, if the Khaleesi demanded his presence, who was he to deny them both? The wolf must have understood just who was following in his tracks, for he made certain to step on every feeble branch and push away every wobbly stone that stood in his path.

_What a considerate beast. I wonder, if I were to die right now, if he would wait before or after my flesh began to rot before he would feast on me?_

“How did you manage to find me? Was it the smell? The heat in Slaver’s Bay _is_ a treacherous thing. Cool in the morning, and near on unbearable by midday.” Ghost was silent. “Keep a more sure pace, beast. I am not so old and so blind that-“

And then he heard footsteps, louder and more clumsy than his own. He knew the stance of those that were not Dothraki, of the men and women that were born in the saddle. These footsteps were more proud than that, but not nearly as much as the Andal or the Khaleesi. Whomever drew close were not Dothraki, and they were not Jon Snow or the Khaleesi.

 _Mercenaries. But from which company?_ The most experienced of sellswords had dispersed with Drogo’s death. The Second Sons and the Windblown would have no difficulty finding new masters with heavy purses, and it was said that the Stormcrows were already bought out by a master in Astapor.

“The bitch said that he went this way.” The man was speaking with the harsh accent of the Tyroshi. Or perhaps he hailed from Braavos, but No-Eyes doubted that. What kind of Braavosi would fight for a slaver? “How far could a blind man go?”

“Far enough that we have to go to the fucking river. You can hear the Worm from here.”

“Maybe he fell in? Would save us a load of trouble.” No-Eyes hunkered his body against the body of a tree. Or the ruins of one. He could feel the sharp edges where it had fallen over, and the splinters pricked against his fingers.

“Fat chance of that. I’ve seen him walk. That one doesn’t have eyes, but you wouldn’t know it.”

“Magic, you think? They say that the Khal had a shadowbinder with him. One of them sorcerers from Asshai.”

There was a snort. “Lot of good that did him. The horsefucker got mauled by lions, they say.”

“Well, we’ll get our purse one way or another. Bloodbeard promised us that much. But first we have to deal with the personal guard of that khaleesi. If there are any treasures, she would have them.”

There was a laugh, but No-Eyes could hear feel any joy in them. “Especially the one between her legs. She’s as swollen as a cow, but just look at her Terebor. I’d fill her up as soon as she puts out another.”

“Farebo, shut your mouth. And you too Haleks. Don’t you hear that?”

There was some hesitation, and then a shred of fear in the man’s voice. “Gods Kalem, what are you on about?”

“I don’t hear a damn thing.”

“Only because you have shit in your ears, Haleks.” All of a sudden, No-Eyes could feel his heart beat like a thunderclap. “Look there, on the ground. Someone was here. The twigs are snapped. And on that climb there, you can see the leaves that were pushed around.”

“The blind priest.”

“Without a doubt.” Then No-Eyes heard the howling of drawn steel. “Let’s put an old man to rest.” No-Eyes heard the rustling of leaves, the tumbling of stones, and the gasps as Ghost leapt into them. For the first time in a year, No-Eyes _heard_ the wolf as his maws ripped into the flesh of the sellswords. _They come for the Khaleesi and Jon Snow._ No-Eyes scrambled to his feet and twisted around the trunk. He slid down the hill, felt the leaves flow from him and the tumbling of stone and rock.

“There’s the Priest!”

“Fuck the Priest, here’s the _wolf!_ ”

 _This priest has a name._ He came off the slope with a leap, and he found his fingers digging into the collar of one of the sellswords. The piercing scream of one of the mercenaries filled his ears. No-Eyes brought his head down, as hard as he could, and he could hear the man groan as he lost his footing. His feet twisted all crooked into the soft earth as he struggled to recover his balance. No-Eyes didn’t give the man the opportunity. With one hand firmly clutched at his collar, he brought the man close to bear, and sent a fist into his face. The sellsword fell to the ground with a thud, and leaves danced in the air.

No-Eyes twisted, and he felt his long hair whip around him. One of the mercenaries hollered, and he heard steel cut through flesh, and another mercenary approached with heavy steps. The steel sword screeched through the air, and its wielder hollered with it. _Loud and easy._ No-Eyes avoided the swing once, twice, and then a third time he had his opening. The man swung too far, and he was struggling to recover. No-Eyes pressed forward, and pointed his elbow into the man’s throat. There was a choking gasp, and the blade fell to the ground. No-Eyes stepped over the crude sword and swing again. His slap sent the man staggering and twisting,

Leaves crunched beneath the feet of the third sellsword. His breathing was hot and short. _He was the one that Ghost mauled. Where is the wolf?_ The man made no try to hide his presence. He came upon No-Eyes with a slice of his sword. He weaved away from the first strike, spun along the second, and slammed his body into the attacker. He felt the weight of the man fall to the ground, and the blade clanged as it dropped to the earth.

At once No-Eyes grappled him. He formed a grip as tight as any vice around the man’s neck. The mercenary coughed and begged for breath, his attempts at escape all pitiful scratches and slaps. No-Eyes as still as stone. “Speak and you will be released. Nod if you understand.” The man let out a horrible cough. “Nod!” he demanded, and he felt the man comply. He loosened, just enough so the man could breath. “Who sent you for my head? Was it Bloodbeard?”

“Yes!”

“Why?” When the mercenary didn’t respond, No-Eyes fastened his grip.

The man struggled under the strain. “For the girl. The Targaryen!”

“The Khaleesi. What would a mercenary want from her?” _He couldn’t plan on taking her for himself._

“We Catsmen can only find service in Slaver’s Bay. She needs to die!”

No-Eyes pressed on the man’s neck. “What would that gain you?” He allowed the man to cough a few times before he allowed him to speak.

“To get on their good side! The Masters of the Bay! We don’t have the esteem of the other companies!”

“An offering. A tribute. A gesture to return to their good graces.”

“Yes!” the man strained. “All true. Every word. Release.”

“I said the words. A release. From this life.” It did not take long to kill the man. No-Eyes only had to apply his weight on the man’s neck, and once he heard the cracking of bone, he knew the task was done. No-Eyes rubbed at his wrist. “Ghost,” he breathed. “Wolf. Where are you? I know you’re not dead. Not yet.” Then he felt the wolf’s flank rub against his side. No-Eyes laid a heavy hand on him, and his fingers became damp. “You’ve been cut. Not bad, I hope?” Ghost gave no response. No-Eyes rose to his feet.

_Wait for me, Jon. I am not dead yet._

 

**THE BASTARD OF WINTERFELL**

 

“Strike off your hair Polo,” Jon demanded at swordpoint. The wolf-marked sword scraped against the man’s cheek. _He is ugly as sin_. The man only known a few defeats, including the one Jon had inflicted on him this day. One of them left a crimson scar on the right side of his face, and some other lost battle had left many of his teeth a shattered ruin.

The Khal’s eyes were a dark flame. He did not take his eyes off from Jon as he cut through his hair. “This changes nothing, Andal. I will kill the khalakka.”

“You will kill no one. Look around you Polo.” He had gone upon Polo’s khalasar with a hundred Rams. Jon knew the chance to strike was now, before Polo could create a firm reputation. He had three times Jon’s number, but the Rams were experienced and eager for blood. As soon as he forced Polo to the ground, with fifty of his riders breathing their last, the khalasar began to disperse. “With what riders will you charge at Daenerys? Leave with your head on your shoulders, and live to kill someone else.”

Jon withdrew his blade, and Polo rose to his feet. Jon thought the man looked even more gruesome with his hair all butchered. But the Khal’s silver bells were laying at his feet in the clumps of black hair. More than his pride was ruined – his ability to gather men was neutered. By the time he regained his pride and his men’s faith, Jon and Daenerys will have fled.

Polo stamped off as one of the Rams approached. Jon could smell the man before he saw him. “This could have backfired, Andal,” Aruho Tek Napsur said as he leaned on his arakh. “But you have a mind for killing, I’ll give you that.”

 _Gods be good, there will be less of it by the day’s end._ They won the day by taking advantage of Pollo’s situation. Not everyday you can attack an army as it is being formed right on your doorstep. The other khals won’t be so easy. Perhaps they would learn from Pollo and leave. Jon doubted it would be so easy. “We should ride back. Any word from Jorah Mormont?”

“The other Andal?” Aruho considered for a moment. “Broad man, balding hair, always a frown on his face?” Jon nodded. “There was something about those Cats. Jorah was given a few men and went to deal with them.”

“Bloodbeard.” Like most of the Rams, Aruho had been a sellsword himself. “Do you know anything of him?”

At that, Aruho spat on the ground. “That’s what I say to him. The man is a beast. He has that name for a reason. None even knows what name his mother gave him, if he even had one. He was behind the butchery of Akglagen.”

Jon narrowed his eyes. “I never heard of this. What happened?”

Aruho scratched at his beard. “Aklagen was a village or town in the Disputed Lands. A score of some mercenary group was holed up there. Bloodbeard was on the other side of the conflict. He could have starved them out, but the man wanted too much of his namesake for that. He set the entire forest to flame, and with the village so close…”

“Aklagan was consumed as well,” Jon realized. “Was there anything left? Were any spared?” He knew the answer as soon as he asked.

“There were plenty of charred corpses. Not so many that would recall the tale. It’s said that the Three Whores won’t have anything to do with him now. Bloodbeard is too hungry for even the likes of Tyrosh. That man’s company has to march past Volantis now to find any real work. But the bastard is as brutal as ever.”

For once, Jon wished Jorah Mormont success. _I don’t know why you continue to serve Dany, but serve her well today. Put that monster to grass._ Even if Daenerys wasn’t in labor, he would have wanted this Butcher of Aklagan dealt with. It didn’t rest east on him, knowing a man could commit such a crime unscathed. _And yet, I fight alongside a man who is committed to slavery. He advised Drogo on the profits he could earn from selling slaves to Mereen._ Jon wondered what Father would think, of relying on the arms of a man like Jorah Mormont. He knew what Father would do – execute the man. He broke all the good laws of the world by killing his cousin. The man could not be trusted

But Essos was not Westeros, and here Jon must make allies with men that should be his enemies. He would need to swallow his taste for Jorah Mormont. These Rams were the better sort – they all shared the same hatred for slavery. Jon suspected this would be the last time that he would ally with someone he can stomach. _Jhogo thinks of me as friend, surely. But the man would put another in chains if he could profit from it._

Jon clicked his tongue. “Ghost, to me.” The direwolf tore his maw away from the horse that it was ripping through, the head of its rider a ruin upon the rock he had fallen on. His pale fur was wet and red. Jon did not want to tear Ghost away from Dany. He felt safer feeling that Ghost was watching over her. But Jorah had grabbed him by the shoulders. “Take the wolf with you Jon. That thing has always scared the Dothraki.” He didn’t like to admit it, but the man was right. Shadow whined as he approached, but a few gentle touches and some purring words and the horse was calmed again.

They rode back towards Daenerys’ tent. A week past, this camp was crawling with warriors and mercenaries. The banner of the red stallion flew high and proud. After his death, Drogo’s banner had been torn down, and the Dothraki had left a mess in their wake to lay claim to his khalasar. Jon could hear the clucking of chickens as he rode past.

Dany was bed, pale and covered in a sheen of sweet. She looked at him weakly, her violet eyes had taken on a milky shade. “Jon. What news?”

“Khal Pollo won’t be a problem. Or a khal for much longer, I feel. I humiliated him with just a hundred men. He looks even worse bald than he does with his braids.” Dany forced a weak smile while Doreah cooled her down with a rag. “How do you fare?”

“Irritated, miserable, and desperate to get my son out in the world. He has not obliged.” She groaned as she shuffled on her pillows. Her hair was not the intricate braids that Jon was used to. Her hair was in loose, disjointed strands. Deep circles that grew beneath her eyes. _How long has it been since you have slept?_ “Irri, Jhiqui leave us.”

Once they had left, Jon found his way to her side. “Once this baby is born, I am gelding you Jon. I am not suffering this again.”

Jon managed a smile. “I thought you wanted to be queens. Queens are supposed to give a strong bloodline for their kingdoms.”

She thumbed at her chest. “Not this queen. You can grow the cunt, and I the cock, and we can see how you feel about that.” She sighed. “I heard that the good queen Alysanne gave Jaehaerys thirteen children. How she managed that I can never guess. This one is going to be the death of me.”

“That is not true Khaleesi,” Doreah insisted. “You will survive this. It’s just a baby.”

Job rubbed at her knuckles. “I know a little of her. She visited the Wall on the back of her dragon Silverwing, and convinced her husband to expand the domains of the Night’s Watch twicefold.” Jon frowned a bit. “They took the land from the Starks, if I recall.”

“My family has taken much from yours. That changes when we return. Your brothers and sisters will be princes and princesses of the realm.”

“I wonder how Sansa will feel about that.” He tried to keep the smile on his face. “She is betrothed to Prince Joffrey. Going from queen to princess is not much of an improvement.”

Dany furrowed her brows. “Keeping a royal title is an improvement.” She sighed as she sunk into her pillows. “My eggs, Jon. Give me my eggs. Let them give me strength.”

Jon furrowed his brows. “They are pieces of stone, Dany. Beautiful beyond a doubt. But they are dead.” But when she looked at him, Jon saw the soft shade had lifted from her eyes, and her violet was hot and determined. “Very well,” he resigned. He made his way to the ash chest, and one by one, laid the eggs on her. She pushed the

Then there was the clamor of horses stomping through the earth, and the shouts of men. “That must be Ser Jorah. I sent him to deal with Bloodbeard.”

Jon rose to his feet. “I’ll be back. Ghost, to me.” The direwolf lurked behind him as he left the tent. He did not see Ser Jorah, nor any of the Rams that went with him. He saw men in leather and vests of ringmail, men wielding arakhs and longsword and warhammers. The banner of the Cat was hanging from the horse that Bloodbeard stepped down from. “What do you want, sellsword?” _Where is Jorah Mormont?_

“You know what I am Andal,” Bloodbeard said with a snort. “And you know what I want. Payment for what was promised. Payment for what is due. I have men that I need to feed.”

“The Dothraki left plenty behind when they ran to their knew khals. Take what you want.” Jon glanced around. He saw withered old men and boys who did not have any bells in their hair. _Where is Jorah? Where is Jhogo, Aggo and Rakharo? Where is No-Eyes?_ He saw a few of the Rams itch their fingers towards their arakhs. He could feel the unease creep in.

“My men have greater hungers than for chickens. Whores, jeweled baubles, meats with spices and luxurious aromas. We were promised enough gold and glory to appease all that. How can I get that from just some spindly chickens?”

“The Dothraki took it all away when Drogo died. Take it up with them.”

Bloodbeard approached Jon. The man wasn’t tall, but he was immense, and Jon would have to lie to say that he wasn’t intimidated by his form. Ser Rodrik said to know your opponent. Jon didn’t know a thing about Bloodbeard, except that he was a brutal creature. “I am taking it up with you. And the horse whore.”

“Silence your tongue,” spoke one of the Rams.

The Cats began to gather around their commander, just as the Rams and green Dothraki boys supported Jon. He could not feel Ghost. Jon wanted to look, but he dared not tear his gaze from the man. _Ghost was right behind me._

Bloodbeard grinned. “And who are you to make me, goat fucker?” Jon could feel the man looming over me. He was confident in his stance. His hands were fisted at his hips, and his blue eyes were gleaming. “I had only a small party attract your Khaleesi. She jumped to the bait too easily. I just strolled right in. So, tell me again Jon Snow. Who are you to make me?”

“Just a bastard,” Jon said. “But one who is trained with the sword. I was trained by Ser Rodrik of Winterfell. Who taught you?”

“The screams of men and the chorales of the dying. Those were my mistresses, and I fucked them bloody.” Bloodbeard peered over Jon. He was looking at the young children that were clinging to their mothers’ skirts. “We are right outside Astapor. They would pay well for these boys. Slice them, root and stem. Let me have them, and we can be on our way.”

“No. You will not take a single one.” _Father would not allow you to take another step. He stood against the Mad King. I can protect these people._

“A single one? Not even one child?” He raised up a finger. “One boy. That’s all I’m asking. That is the price for peace. Then I walk away.”

 _Men could die. I could die._ “Then come through me. You and I. None of your men need to die.” He took a step back, his fingers tightened around his sword. Distance was the advantage. Bloodbeard had an arakh strapped to his belt. He would want to get in close. _I cannot let him. That will be the death of me._

Bloodbeard smiled, and Jon thought he was looking into the eyes of a beast. “I don’t think so.” The arakh was in his hand in an instant, and the wolf-marked sword sang as Jon drew it from his scabbard. Men cried out, he heard the screams of a woman and the clashing of steel against steel. His sword danced against the edge of Bloodbeard’s arakh, sparks rushing into the air.

Jon expected Bloodbeard to say something, to mock and dance with his words. But the man was silent, his blue eyes staring at Jon’s. He pushed his weight into Jon’s, and Jon was felt himself nearly tripping over his feet. He bent his foot and braced against Bloodbeard’s swings. He was relentless, his arakh cutting in short and quick. Jon gave as good as he got, pushing Bloodbeard away with every swing.

He heard someone cried out in his death rattle. He couldn’t tear himself away to see. _I need to kill Bloodbeard._ If he died, his men would scatter. Jon was certain. He rushed towards him and thrusted. Bloodbeard slapped the sword away, but he was pushed back. Jon pressed the advantage, keeping the sellsword as far back as he could. _The arakh is only good if it can get in close._ He always told Jhogo that none with an arakh could beat someone that knew the longsword.

 _If he spoke or yelled, I could take a guess of him._ But Bloodbeard was as silent as stone, and his eyes gave nothing away. Jon was not a true swordsman, he was just a bastard, but he followed the Old Gods and they were with him. Bloodbeard took a step. Four steps, three steps, that was as far as Jon would let him. He crashed his longsword against Bloodbeard’s arakh, and Jon felt his hands shake.

Bloodbeard meant to push Jon away again, but he wouldn’t give the opportunity. Jon pushed back first, using the weight of his sword. Bloodbeard yelled and he brought his arakh to block the blows. _If I was stronger, the arakh would be out of his hand._ But where Robb was strong Jon was quick. He swung faster and swifter, and Bloodbeard struggled to keep the pace.

Then Jon swung and Bloodbeard screamed as blood trickled down from his face. The crimson filled his beard. _Now his name is true_. The man brought a hand to where his ear used to be, the thick blood seeping through his fingers. He didn’t fall to the earth, but the man was screaming, and his knees were bending from the pain.

Jon raised his sword. One strike and the man was dead. But then he felt someone kick him in the knees, and Jon lost the grip of his sword. The steel clanged to the soft earth, and someone pulled to his hair and another pushed him to the ground. Then he felt the cold knife’s edge touch his neck, the sharp point tickling against his skin.

“No!” Bloodbeard hollered, his eyes bloodshot. “I don’t want him dead. Give me some fucking silk!” Jon heard a woman scream for her son, and the sound of someone being hit. He couldn’t turn, the knife was too sharp, the edge too close. A man with bandages, and in a few moments half of Bloodbeard’s face was wrapped. The white silk turned a crimson color, and soon blood was dripping from between the layers.

Bloodbeard whipped his hand in the air as he approached. The men backed off, and Jon allowed himself to breath as he felt the knife drift from his neck.

Then Bloodbeard slammed his fist into Jon’s face, and everything became a blur. He felt the side of his face sink into the cold earth, and his nose was filled with the smell of ash and sulfur. His hand was crushed beneath Bloodbeard’s boot, and he twisted Jon’s hand into the earth. Jon screamed.

Bloodbeard bent down, his scraggy face brushing against Jon. “All I asked for was compensation, for time well fucking wasted. I came as a man of business, and you spat at my face. I know your type – the ones born from privilege, with your cock so far up your asses that you don’t even know that you are fucking yourself. You think you are important, Jon Snow.

“Here is the fucking truth. You are just sacks of meat with bones to hold it all together. You are nothing.” Bloodbeard tore himself away, his boot still pressing on Jon’s hand. The pain was coursing through his joints, and it was everything Jon could do to not yell. “Take the women and children! I asked for one. I will get plenty more.” Jon heard some wallops and cheers, then a scream. He saw a boy being torn from his mother, a man being shackled at his neck. The rattling of the chains and fetters echoed like thunder.

Rough hands pulled him to his feet. “Search him,” Bloodbeard commanded. “A boy that pretty has to have some pretty baubles on him. Even if he does stink of horse flesh.” He felt fingers riffling through his pockets, squeezing the meat of his thighs, worming through the buckle of his sword belt. And then one of them padded at his chest, and Jon felt the dragon ring press into him. The Cat looked at him knowingly, and before Jon could protest felt the man slip his hand beneath his shirt.

The ring was in front of him, tucked between two fingers. The man formed a fist around the ring and pulled it from Jon’s neck, the chains snapping. The sellsword offered it up to Bloodbeard, and the man gazed upon it. The man’s eyes had a faint shine to them.

“So that is the way of it,” Bloodbeard said. He looked towards one his Cats, his blue beard dampened with sweat. “Set alight some torches.”

“Torches” Jon breathed. “What are you doing?”

Bloodbeard took Jon in a fierce grip. He could feel the man’s fingers dig into his cheek, his nails cutting into flesh. “The slaves will be a worthy price, but I rode with Khal Drogo. I need to make a blood offering, to show I am no enemy to the people.” He turned to the men with blazing torches in hand. “Her tent is the biggest one. Cover it with debris, then light it.”

“No! Please no, I beg you. Don’t! She is with child!”

Bloodbeard held out a hand. “Wait!” His voice was like a hammer striking steel. The men were holding crates, shattered barrels of wine, and ripped out parapets. Jon could feel his heart beating through his throat. Bloodbeard felt the grooves of the ring. “Did you just beg to me, Westerosi?”

His throat was as dry as it had ever been. “Please. Do not do this.”

Bloodbeard smiled. “You’ve asked for mercy. When all is lost, that is all we can do. Beg and hope for mercy.” Bloodbeard cupped Jon’s cheek. “You Westerosis, you kiss the fingers of your betters, don’t you?” He fitted the ring onto his finger. “Kiss my finger. As you would a king.”

Jon looked at Bloodbeard for a moment. Then he felt the flat end of a sword nudge him on. He crawled to Bloodbeard, who extended his hand, the dragon ring looking at Jon. He laid his lips on the ring. “She is your woman, isn’t she?” Bloodbeard forced Jon to gaze into him. “Look at your betters when they are speaking. If you speak true, I will show her mercy.”

“I bedded her,” Jon whispered, his throat coarse.

“I want you to say it. Loud enough for everyone to hear. I want these people to know they are going to Astapor in chains because of you. Because the man that betrayed Khal Drogo would not let his pride die.” Jon felt his lungs clutch. “Say the words!”

“I bedded Daenerys Targaryen!” To Jon, the world went silent. He could hear dust being blown by the wind. “The baby is mine. Her baby is mine! She’s giving birth to my son!” Jon felt the tears stroke down his cheek. _I never deserved her._

Bloodbeard looked down at him, and padded his cheek. “Very good,” Bloodbeard said with satisfaction. “You must love her dearly. I know that look in your eyes. Did she accept you, when no one else would? When you were with her, did it feel like it you were the only ones left in the entire world? Like you were born again in her arms?” He looked towards the men with the torches. “Burn it.”

“NO!” Jon rushed to his feet, but a man struck him. He tried again but another blow came to his side. “You promised mercy!” He tasted blood.

“I did promise mercy. Now that everyone knows that you betrayed the Khal, they will kill her and the babe. This is much better. She is a Targaryen, isn’t she? I hear they would burn their dead. It will be quicker than what the Dothraki would have had in store for you. But as for you,” and Bloodbeard slammed his fist into Jon. He felt the dragon ring tear at his cheek. “You are going to Astapor in chains. Perhaps you will fight in the Blood Pits? That’s more than what any man could ask for. To die with sword in hand. I look forward to seeing you be ripped apart in the arena.” Bloodbeard wiped at his mouth. “Let’s go!”

Jon struggled as they twisted his arms behind him. “Daenerys!” Cold iron was hands, squeezing on his flesh, Jon screamed, a man punched him in the gut, a steel clamp was wrapped around his throat. He could not speak. _Daenerys!_ He could only think her name over and over. Their son, their _son¸_ the boy she allowed him to dream of, he was supposed to grow up to be fifty and hold his own son in his arms, she was supposed to die gray and graceful.

The iron choked him as they tugged on the chains. _Ghost_. He did not see him, did not feel him. He saw as old men were cut down, their gasps withered. The tent was covered in a sheet of flame now, the fire twisting around the edges, the leather put in a dark pillar of smoke. He heard desperate screams. As Jon was forced away, he watched as his life was put to the fires.

Above in the shadows of the night, burning a streak across the stars, was the comet.

 

**THE PRINCESS OF DRAGONSTONE**

 

Her realm was fire and smoke. The golden fires danced across the leather, consuming it, crimson tendrils crawling from the earth. The smoke had leaned into long pillars of dark and gray. And everywhere the fire danced burned.

Doreah had wept at first. And she had screamed. She tried to tear at the walls, but the leather was too thick, to well designed to be ripped by the fingers of a woman. And the fires were so hot that as soon as Doreah had laid a hand on the walls of the tent, she screamed, and tore herself away and saw that her palms were pink and seared. Doreah wailed and begged to be let go, that she can’t die, that the Khaleesi was _pregnant_ , her son was about to be born, so please let them go, by all the gods, let them go.

But then she heard Jon scream, and Dany knew that no one was going to come.

She felt the sweat stick to her flesh like a thick veil, and she was covered in ash. Sweat trickled down her flesh, between her breasts, flowed down her thighs, coursed over her swollen belly. The womb from which her son would be born, entering the world amidst fire and smoke. Her heart beat like the screamers at war. _Why am I afraid? The dragons do not burn._

Doreah was crying still, watering the earth with the salt of her tears. She was on spread knees, her body too weak, the flames absorbing all thought, power courage and mind from her. “I am sorry, Khaleesi,” she wept with weakness.

HeaaaaaaaaaHer fingers held the black and crimson egg, the specks dancing along the jeweled scales of the egg. She had known for a long time, she realized. The brazier was not great enough. The timid fires were never enough, the sparks too humble and fleeting. Great fires summons greatness. She remembered the comet, how Irri said it was so bright tonight. She could not have asked for a greater sign.

She would not die here, she commanded to herself.

 _A mere girl to end the flames_ spoke the smoke as it rose around her, clouding her eyes, filling her lungs.

“I am more than a girl,” she declared. “I am Daenerys Targaryen.”

The fires gathered higher and higher. _A woman, a child, to be consumed._

“No. I am the dragon’s daughter, the dragon’s sister, the mother to dragons today and those yet to come. And I am the wolf’s beloved. I will not die here. I will not be consumed by the fires.” Then she heard it, the first crack like the crashing of the tide.

 _Declarations are bold_. The smoke gathered around her.

“I have the blood. I have the legacies.”

And the flames bellowed as it grew, turning the world crimson and gold. _Fire and blood. What are your offerings?_

“The blood of my enemies. I will take back what is mine. I will claim it for my son. He will know the throne of iron.”

 _There must be more_ , the smoke demanded.

“Empires will remember me. They will say Daenerys Targaryen was born here, in the fire and smoke.”

_You will have no son. You will be the mother of dragons._

“No!” And the words were in the old tongue, in the words that Viserys taught her. “The dragon does not beg. I do not beg. I demand. I will be live, I will prosper, I will thrive, and my son will live. He shall know the chill of the winter wind, the kiss of a woman, the weight of his own son in his arms, and the respect of thousands.” Then the second crack, immense and thunderous.

_Fire and blood. The dragons know the words. Do you?_

“I shall bring them to my enemies.”

She could smell the choking of burning flesh. _Fire and blood. Flames to burn, and a life to be snuffed out forever. There is no other way._

“You ask what I cannot give. She is my friend, the greatest of my companions. She championed when I was alone.”  
The comet was over her now. _We ask it and demand it. Fire and blood._

Doreah was her friend. Doreah was there with her gentle touches, with her assuring words and her glares of inspiration. Her smile warmed Dany’s heart. When Jon could not be there, Doreah was. Two women who knew what it was like to be under the throes of another, and two would do anything to escape it.

The flames demanded, closer and hotter and searing. _Fire and blood._

“Fire and blood,” Dany said, full of grief and resolve. Then came the third crack, so great and powerful with the force to destroy the world.

In time the smoke did pass, and the embers died away. She walked over the smoldering wood, the hot ashes, the blackened remnants of the hrakkar cloak, and Doreah’s black bones. She stood towering over them, standing upon the raised ruins of her tent, the leather decrepit and sunken with ash. It was such a small gathering that surrounded her.

“Khaleesi,” Irri said, and Dany could hear the wonderment in her voice. Dany stood there naked, her dresses burnt to ash, her hair melted away, but she was not shamed as they looked upon her. She felt her son cling to her, suckling at her breast. And in the right was the dragon with green and white scales, its wings tucked and tender. She cradled her arms, to keep both son and dragon close. Clung to her leg was the one with the silver and gold, his claws digging into her thigh, blood drawn, but Dany did not scream in pain. And perched on her shoulders was the largest of them all, the black dragon with the golden eyes and crowned with crimson scales.

Three had fallen to their feet. Jhogo, Aggo and Rakharo bowed their head in respect. She saw that Jhogo had dug his fingers into the ash cladding earth. “Blood of my blood,” he declared. “Blood of my blood,” swore Aggo. “Blood of my blood,” Rakharo said.

She saw Tareoh Neh Khaluk, and he had fallen to his knees, his eye wide with wonder. “You look too humble,” she said.

“I have been humbled,” he said, with no trace of his humor. “Forgive me. I failed you. I went to deal with Khal Jhaqo, and left you to suffer.”

“Then do not fail me again. Will you raise your arakh in my name? Will your Rams fight for my glories? Shall I bring a reckoning to my enemies?”

“It will be so. You have my sword. You have my men, of what yet remains of them. And if I have to die for you, I will do so smiling.”

She turned to Ser Jorah Mormont, who was on bended knee. He was pale, his hair covered in sweat. If her arms were free, she would have laid a hand on his face. “Princess,” he said.

“Princess?” she scorned. “My brother was king of the Seven Kingdoms.” She spoke then in the common tongue of the kingdoms that belonged to her by right. “Everything that was once his is now mine. What am I now?”

“My Queen,” Jorah hailed. She saw what remained of her khas. Wounded men, women and children, none of them great warriors. “I should not have lost faith. I thought on turning from you, and I began to flee into the west. I returned, only to see the fires. I stayed, to bury the darkened bones of you and your son. Forgive me.”

“I do not forgive, and I do not forget. I remember the words you said to my brother.”

“There was no heart in that oath. But there is truth in this one, my Queen. I swear my life to you, I swear to honor you and your counsel. I will defend you and give my life if needed. I will protect you and your son until my life is ripped from me.”

“Then rise, Ser Jorah,” and he did so, “and know that you are the first of my Queensguard. Where is Jon?” _Where is the father of my son? Where is my heart?_

“He was taken, Khaleesi,” Jhiqui said. “The Cats took him to Astapor. He is a slave now, with hundreds of others.”

“Then we shall find him.” It was then that her son tore from his breast and cried, a wail of defiance and hunger, and the dragon at her breast joined, as did the one at her thighs, the shrieks and echoes rising into the night. The black unfurled his translucent wings, and he added his voice to the chorus, and the singing became louder and louder, climbed higher and higher, and for the first time in hundreds of years, the night knew the songs of dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it - the end of the Dothraki arc. It took me 299 pages and 155k words to reach this point, and it's been a hell of a ride. Thanks for coming along. 
> 
> So we have Arya, Sansa, the Golden Company and the Sealord of Braavos coming for Astapor. Daenerys has awaken the dragons from stone, with her new born son in tow, and Jon has been taken into captivity by the Company of the Cat. 
> 
> And all the while we need to ask...what is happening in Westeros? What's going on at the Wall, since Jon is not there?
> 
> Well, we'll find out in a few months when I finish the Astapor arc. One month from now is best case scenario, three months if I totally fuck things up, while two months seems most probable. 
> 
> See you then!


	11. Bonus: The Arya Chapters That Could Have Been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, we all know that I have cut a huge chunk out of the Astapor arc due to me chaning Arya's trajectory. Some of you were probably wondering just *what* they looked like. Never to let anything go to waste, here is the now re-conned, out of continuity Arya chapters. 
> 
> If you are a new reader, feel free to skip this. As I said, this no longer has any narrative weight on the story.

**THE SHE-WOLF OF WINTERFELL**

 

Volantis wasn’t a city, Arya was half-convinced. Volantis was a nation with walls and streets and sewers. When she raced from the Golden Company, the rain pilfering onto her hair, she saw the walls touching the sky. She was certain it had to belong to a defensive fort or a holdfast of some kind – not even King’s Landing had walls that rose up so high. But as she scurried over the hill and saw the city, going for leagues and leagues that shamed the capitol of Westeros, she reconsidered. Arya was certain that Volantis had to be made up of multiple cities, or that perhaps it was made up of a dozen different districts.

 

_ Surely they do not expect people to know this city as soon as they step through the gates. _

 

Arya quickly learned to be disappointed. 

 

Getting into Volantis was the easy part. Despite her coming from the Golden Company’s camp, she did not look the part. She had no golden arm rings, or gilded skulls that hung from her neck. And she certainly was not a man. The men in their tiger masks and cloaks of orange and black stripes would take a momentary glance at her and shrug. 

 

The problem with Volantis, was not the threat of a sword over her head. It wasn’t King’s Landing, where everyone was looking for Arya Stark. And it wasn’t Myr, where the only person that wanted to leave was a girl named Arya. The problem with Volantis was that it was the biggest city she had ever seen, and it was only split into two parts.

 

East and West.  _ Chaos and madness, and more than a fair bit of stupidity.  _

 

Following the rains a deep fog had laid dominion over the city. Or, perhaps over the western folds of Volantis. Arya would never be able to breach the black walls that marked the west. From what she learned, only those of the Old Blood, of ancient Valyria and their dragonlords, were allowed to take up residence there. You could have been richer than a king, but unless you had the silver-gold hair and the violet eyes, you would not be permitted passage. 

 

_ I do have old blood flowing through my veins. The Starks were the Kings of Winter, and we ruled the North for eight thousand years. You can keep your dragons and their bones.  _

 

Some nights she would dream of the bones in the shadows of the Red Keep, and when she would awake blurry eyed in the morning she would wonder. Did those bones  _ really  _ speak to her? In the moment it had all seemed so real, but she was also going off of rat flesh and whatever scraps of bread she managed to steal from the markets. The mind went into queer and unusual places without nourishment; Syrio Forel had told her so himself. But when she thought of the words that seemed to echo in her mind, it had all seemed so real and true. 

 

Perhaps it didn’t matter. Perhaps it made all the difference in the world. Arya was here, in Volantis, one of the greatest port cities in the world. Maybe one of the cities in Yi’Ti would be bigger, but that was so far away that few ever ventured there. If there was one city that would have passage to Astapor, it would be Volantis. The Golden Company were desperate to secure passage -  they were surely applying pressure on the travelers and merchants now, slowly forcing the Old Blood to a summons. That meant Arya had time. 

 

Time enough to warn Daenerys of the nephew that meant to marry her and kill Jon.  _ I’ll stick Needle in his eye before that happens.  _ And if Daenerys Targaryen was just as bad as all the rest, and would set Jon aside? Well, maybe Arya would kill her too, and Jon would raise their child as a Stark in Winterfell. That would ruffle their feathers something terrible. 

 

But first, Arya had to get to Astapor and rescue them from Khal Drogo. 

 

The problem wasn’t finding transport. Astapor was one of the great slaving cities, second only to Mereen in Slaver’s Bay. It was the money – the purse she lifted from the Lannister guards was becoming light. Arya had the sense to lift some salted beef from the Company kitchens before she made her escape in the night, and the mare she rode on fetched a good price. But she was certain that the man had a mustache three sizes too long for his thin face, and she was doubly certain that he only paid her half of the mare’s worth. 

 

The passage she could have bought would have swallowed nearly all that she had left. And Arya could not say how long it would take her to find Jon and Daenerys after she made port in Astapor. She needed enough to last until…

 

Until what? If she found Jon and Daenerys, would they have enough to buy transport from Astapor to Volantis again, and then from Volantis to Myr back to Westeros? Arya was certain none of that was true. The closer she got to Jon, the more doubts that gnawed that her.  _ Every question is a poison. So why do I keep indulging myself?  _

 

In the few days she had lingered in the city, there was one name she heard. “The Widow controls the ships. Try taking it up with her.” Of course, the men all said that with a laugh.  _ Will you laugh when I do find this Widow?  _ Whenever she asked for this Widow’s name, name of the ship captains or shippers could provide one. All they said was that this Widow of the Waterfront controls nearly all of the water ways of western Volantis. None dock without her say-so. 

 

“If you fancy a chat with the Widow,” said a fat Pentosi with crooked teeth, “go find her in the Merchant’s House. Trust me chit, you won’t miss that swollen monster.”

 

The Pentosi was right. The Merchant’s House was a four-story tall monstrosity. It was adorned with balconies that hung like stiff arms, and drapes hung from the windows like a hundred eye lashes. Arya was half certain that some of those windows glowed with a warm orange, and if dragons had eyes it would look like that. The House was so large and wide that Arya was surprised it hadn’t consumed the lesser structures that surrounded it. 

 

The outside invited imagination. The inside realized it. The common room, which was littered with a hundred different tables, was bigger than the Feast Hall of Winterfall. The air itself was filled with the smell of wine and smoke-weed. A thousand different laughs and chuckles accompanied her as she swerved through the maze of chairs and spilled beer. Arya had to squint to keep the thick smoke from stinging her eyes. Half a dozen times she would turn to make sure Nymeria was still with her, but the wolf was still padding along. 

 

The Merchant’s House had to be the crossroads of the road, because Arya saw just about every sort of person. There was a Summer Islander with a necklace of fangs, and a tall gray man with golden eyes. She saw some who had the emblems of noble houses from home, and Arya made sure to not look at any of them in the eye. But none of them paid her no heed, which Arya supposed made sense. None would think to find Arya Stark in Volantis. 

 

She had half hoped to find someone with one of Father’s royal banner-men, but she could not find the hundred wolves of the Cassels, or the merman of House Manderly. She only found strange emblems of houses that did not call the North home. Not even any of the Riverland houses that swore eternal loyalty to her grandfather were in Volantis that night. 

 

_ They would be Robb’s bannermen now, not Father’s.  _ She was there when Joffrey demanded Father’s head. If she was faster, or stronger, or anything else but a girl of five and teen that played at being a Water Dancer, then maybe she could have done something. Something more than just hiding in the darkness with the bones. Some nights she would struggle to sleep, and she would see Father’s face. He would say something, but she couldn’t make out the words.  _ Robb is the King in the North now. Robb would protect all of them.  _ Arya couldn’t see Robb turning Jon and his child away, not even Daenerys Targaryen. 

 

Robb would keep their family safe. Arya just needed to find Jon. 

 

She found a small square peg of a table right between two larger ones. The men in their beer stained tunics laughed and cajoled the nearest servants as Arya snugged in. She saw hanging on the walls were bolted manacles. She wondered what they were for…until she saw a fair haired man chain a woman to one of them.  _ They are for slaves.  _

 

Volantis was one of the cogs of Essos’ slaving industry. Perhaps it was the biggest, towering over the cities in Slavers Bay. Arya had seen plenty of men with tattoos on their faces…more of those with them than those that didn’t. Wheels, checkered faces, fans of blue feathers, flies, coins and leopard spots, all signified that the marked man was a slave. Arya couldn’t guess what most of them were. She saw a little boy with a fly tattoo clean elephant dung with his bare hands, and Arya was filled with pity and rage. If she saw the boy’s master, she would have killed him in the streets, 

 

At the far end of the room sat a table with a crone of a woman. She was too far away for Arya to see much of, but she looked as old as the stones of the street. Maybe older. None sat there without invitation, and the only ones that did sit there were guided by men as thick as tree trunks, with curved swords hanging at their hips.  _ The Widow of the Waterfront, without a doubt.  _ A deep shadow from the upper floors were cast over her. She looked half a demon, peering through that thin darkness. 

 

_ I should buy something. I would look out of place if I didn’t.  _ She quickly motioned a servant over and bought…ale? No, she couldn’t risk losing her footing. She didn’t have the money for a cut of duck. “Black bread,” she said quick. “And some honeycreme butter to spread on it.”  _ Bread. Who orders just bread?  _ If the servant had any thoughts on the matter, she didn’t show it. As she walked away Arya saw a man hunched over a trestle table, a furred hat with a cat’s tail hanging down his shoulders. The man was chewing through a cut of bacon, but watching the man one would think it was a piece of stone. Arya thought that queer, but it took her only a moment for her to see why.

 

The man was chewing with only the left side of his mouth. 

 

Arya had eaten through half of her bread, and the man in the cat tail hat was still chewing on his bacon, when one of the massive men came for him. Arya shadowed behind them.  _ Silent as a shadow _ . It wasn’t hard to hide her presence. The common room of the House was less a tavern floor and more of a mass of people. It reminded Arya of the Street of Wheat in King’s Landing. 

 

Just as the man was to approach the Widow’s table, Arya twisted in front of them. One of the men had half of his face carved from scars, and his eye was pale and milky. “Move, girl.”

 

“Don’t let him sit with the Widow. He only eats with one side of his mouth.” She felt a sharp pain as he arm was pulled behind her back. One of the men had grabbed her and was shoving her out of the way. 

 

Then Arya heard something creak, like an old door. “Let her speak,” spoke the Widow. Her voice was bitter and ragged. 

 

The man let her go. She looked back for only a moment. He had a scarred cheek, like someone took a knife to his face and sliced away his flesh. She rubbed at her elbow. “He only ate with the left side of his mouth. His right side is good and capable.”

 

She looked at the Widow. The woman was a canvass of wrinkles, and her gray hair was so think that Arya could see the pink of her flesh. The years had not been kind to her – her back was hunched, and her arms were small and crooked. Her flesh was a yellow as a wrinkled sunflower, and her thin eyes were black and bold. Her right cheek was hollower than the left, and Arya could see a criss-cross of scars. 

 

The Widow narrowed her eyes. “Open his mouth.”

 

The man sputtered. “W-wait a moment! We had an underst-“ The big man behind him grabbed his wrists, and the one in front stuck his burly fingers into the man’s mouth. Arya could see the drool drip from the fingers. The man’s eyes went as wide as a pool. The big man narrowed his eyes.

 

“His tooth is hollow,” he said. His voice was low, and reminded Arya of a hunting horn. 

 

“Pull it out,” the Widow commanded. With a nod, the man went to work. The furred hat with the cat tail had fallen to the ground by then, and its owner screamed as the fingers twisted and pulled at the tooth. Finally he screamed as the tooth was released, dripping in blood. The man was pushed to the ground as the big man looked at the tooth, his eyes focusing on it as if it was a fine jewel. 

 

“There’s poison in here,” the man concluded. “Another assassin.”

 

“Bring him to the back,” the Widow quickly decided. “Another message for those that want an old man dead.” The man blabbered something, thin blood dripping from his lips. A fist to the head and he blabbered no more, his head limping as he was dragged off. The old woman looked at Arya. “Sit girl.” She laid a bony hand onto the table. “You wanted words.”

 

Arya took her seat. Nymeria padded behind her, her golden eyes peering at the Widow of the Waterfront. “I need passage to Astapor.”

 

“You don’t need to stop an assassin to do that.”

 

“I do if ships cost too much coin, and if I find coin in short supply.”

 

The Widow made a tsking sound. “You are leaving something out, girl. You don’t just want to want to get to Astapor. You have business there.” The Widow looked knowingly at Arya. “I didn’t become who I was by accident, girl.”

 

“No, but you were born a slave.” Arya leaned forward on her elbows. “The scar on your cheek, that was where you cut out your slave tattoo. The men that protect you, they were slaves once before. Am I wrong?”

 

A thin smile spread across the woman’s face. “No, you’re not. My husband was Vogarro, and he found me in a pleasure house here. I knew of the Seven Sighs of Yunkai, and he could not do without me for a single day. So he bought me, fitted me with pearls and silk, and wed me. Oh, and he sliced off the teardrop tattoo from my cheek.” Her yellow fingers grazed across the scar. 

 

“Did you love him?”

 

The woman chuckled. “Love him? No. He was a bore, to be honest. I was too good for him, and he was not nearly pleasing enough for me. But I admired him. He was elected to the Triarch seven times, and he owned half of the seaports and warehouses in Volantis. And though I bore him no children but pools of blood, he never hated me for it. I respected him a great deal, and that is more than most wives can say for their husbands.”

 

Her bold eyes narrowed. “Now tell me your story, girl. And do not lie. I did not managed to keep my husband’s estates by being played for a fool. Just ask the corpses in the riverways.”

 

Arya bit her lip. She could feel the big men towering behind her. Nymeria was gazing all around, her golden eyes narrow and wary. “Daenerys Targaryen was sold to Khal Drogo.”

 

“That is known across the continent. It created quite the rustle on the western coast, if I recall.” 

 

“She is pregnant.” The Widow looked at her with slacking eyes. “With my brother’s child. I mean to rescue them both.” 

 

The Widow’s eyes went as wide as a pool of water. “Now that is news. Who is this brother of yours, that would swear loyalty to a khal and then fuck his khaleesi behind his back?”

 

“Jon Snow of Winterfell.”

 

The woman laughed behind her bony fingers. “Oh, so the girl was sold into slavery with rocs of bronze and silver. And she fights against her oppressors the best way she knows how – with that sweet cunt between her legs. Well, from one pleasure slave to another, I cannot fault her methods.” She grinned so wide that Arya could see what few fragments of yellow teeth the Widow still possessed. “Although I imagine the last Targaryen princess ranks quite higher than just a mere master of the Sighs from Yi’Ti. So,” she breathed, “you mean to outrace an army?”

 

“I mean to outrace a pregnancy. I need to reach them before Daenerys delivers my niece or nephew. If I don’t- “

 

“Heads, then spikes. Trust me girl, the ways of the Dothraki are not lost on me. In two days time there is a cog called the  _ Taerhys Sothjor _ . It is filled with fine carpets, spices, wines, and pleasure slaves from Lys. It will bring you to Astapor. The captain is a fat shit of a man named Hiesor Yutar. He is as pleasant as his name suggests, but he will follow my commands, and most importantly, he is silent about it. Say the Widow wishes for a strong son to protect her, and he will let you board.” She narrowed her eyes. “Do not be late. I will not give you another ship.”

 

“I won’t. That’s a promise.”

 

“One last thing, before I give you a room. What do you plan to do with Daenerys Targaryen?”

 

“Bring her home,” Arya said. “Bring her to Winterfell, keep her safe.”

  
“That’s it?” The Widow looked almost shocked. “I had almost expected more of the last Targaryen. Fire and blood are their words if I recall, not bed and hearth. If that is all can be expected from this little girl, then so be it. You bought your passage by revealing that assassin. Blood for blood, so to speak. But should the Targaryen ever want more, well…” And then she placed her withered hand over Arya’s. “Tell her that many of us have been waiting a long time to throw the Old Blood off from their stoops. We have been waiting a long time, if she feels like making something of her blood. Tell her that we are waiting.”

 

THE SHE-WOLF OF WINTERFELL

 

The first thing she remembered was the storm, the fury of the winds, the booming of the thunder in the sky. Then the _Taerhys Sothjor_ broke apart, wooden beams sundered at her feet, the mast cracked and splintered, and everything became a tumble of screams and sea and thunder and wood. She remembered how she was thrown into the waters, and it felt as hard as stone, and the water pulled at her, ripped at her hair, and all of her breath seemed to gone. Arya Stark was certain that she was dead.

Then she awoke, to sand in her hair, and the taste of the sea on her lips. As she raised her head she heaved, felt the sea drip from her. Her clothes were soaked, half of her body was caked in sand, and Arya felt sore in places she hadn’t ached since Syrio Forel.

But Arya Stark was alive.

When Arya woke the storm was still beating against the sky, the thunder claps as loud as the cries of an angry god. She remembered something that Father told her once, that some sailors believed that there was a good of Storm and Thunder that ruled the skies above. Arya wondered, if such words were true, what Captain Hiesor Yutar did to anger him. _Must have been the slaves. The storm god must hate slavers as much as I do._

She wondered how much of the pleasure slaves had drowned in the sea. She would have said a prayer, but the Old Gods were far away in Westeros, and she doubted that any of the Lysene worshiped the Seven.

Then she thought of Nymeria. _No, Nym can’t be dead. Not after we found each other again. She couldn’t have drowned. She is quicker than anyone else, even me._ For hours she searched the shore for paw prints, but the only thing she found were barrels of spices, sea soaked carpets, wooden boards, and swollen corpses.

She did what she could for each of them. Naryse was a maiden of six and ten, who had been trained in the loving arts her entire life. Her mother taught her and protected her from the cruel maiden of pillow house, but when she died the maiden sold her to a man in Astapor. “If I can make Narezek vo Uljuz love me enough, he may marry me. And then I will be a mistress of my own house, and my sons will be noble-born.” The sailor Jugargo was quick to laugh, even quicker to smile, and pissed himself the first time he saw Nymeria. Lamarso was covered in tattoos, depicting everything from the blazing eye of the Red God to naked maidens clinging to ship masts. He was as stern of a man as Father ever was, and was just as fair. He never smiled at Arya, and always looked at Nymeria with a suspicious glare, but he never treated her wrong. He was the ship’s quartermaster, elected to represent their interests, and Arya could never say that he wavered in that duty.

Arya buried them all, even the ones she couldn’t remember. She used a wooden rod to build as deep of a pit as she could for each of them…except for Hiesor Yutar. _You were a slaver. You sold people for meat._ She left him at the top of the dunes. _You can be food for the crabs._ The holes weren’t as deep as she wanted them to. All of the Lords of Winterfell were buried in the crypts, deep beneath the earth. But the crypts of Winterfell were ancient and had been built long before her father’s father was even born. The holes were thin and small. You would probably feel them beneath your boots. But it was better than leaving them to the crabs.

She had thought of Nymeria plenty of times. Arya could not see her when she woke up, but something in her bones told her that Nymeria was not dead. _I won’t despair. I am a wolf of Winterfell. I did not find Nymeria only to lose her to the sea._

By the time she was done, her entire body was covered in a thick layer of sand, her throat was dry, and all of her joints ached. The sun had taken most of her strength away, and even in the cool of the night she felt tired and weak.

 _Just for an hour_. She promised herself that much as she laid her head on the beach. But more than an hour had passed when she felt some wet and rough lick at her face. When she groggily opened her eyes she saw a wolf, fur wetly clung and tangled together, with bright and golden eyes. Arya screamed out Numeria’s name and wrapped her hands around the beast, and Nymeria nuzzled herself against Arya’s shoulder.

Things were easier after that. It was like having the direwolf at her side made everything so much clearer. She found a tree with fuzzy rocks…or at least Arya thought they were rocks, until one of them fell to the ground and split open, revealing a smooth and pleasing white liquid. It was almost as sweet as milk, and Arya lapped it down. But against her soaking clothes the wind was colder than any gust in Winterfell. She balled it all up under her arm and walked naked through the island. _I almost feel free here, at Nymeria’s side._ There was not a soul for Gods know how far. Just her and the direwolf, to feast and drink to their content.

Arya wondered what Mother would think, to see her as she was, naked and sweaty, covered in sand and dirt. _Mother would be screaming, and Septa Mordaine would be wrought._ But the Septa was dead, and Mother was all the way home in Winterfell. She was safe, surely, surrounded by those with loyal hearts. And Arya was here, alone, the woman that lived while the rest of the _Taergys Sothjor_ had died.

Some nights, Arya wondered what was happening in Westeros. Perhaps the Golden Company had managed to secure their ships from Volantis. Were they going east towards Astapor? No, that wouldn’t make sense. Aegon had sent her ahead because the Volantenes were holding them up. _You must save my aunt, Arya. I need to trust you_. He wasn’t expecting a storm to beach Arya on this island. _How long will I be here?_ A blue and green bird with a large beak looked down on here. _I wish I had wings. Then I could just fly to Astapor._

Or maybe even a dragon. _Visenya wouldn’t need a ship. She wouldn’t be stuck here. She would mount Vhagar, burn Khal Drogo and go home._ Things would be easier with a dragon. But the dragons were dead…and the wolves still howled into the night.

Out on this island, in the middle of the dark and crashing sea, Arya felt safe. It was the queerest thing, but even naked and shivering from the cold, Arya had never felt so secure. Not since Winterfell, when she was surrounded by people she knew. She thought of Bran, who fell from the tower. Robb would have had an iron crown laid on his head, but Robb the King was still her brother. She was alone on the island, just her and Nymeria and the shivering winds, but there was no one to consider why a Westerosi girl was so far from home.

That first night she slept in a cave, and hanged her soaking clothes across rocks. She dreamed of Jon and his babe. _It has been so long; the child must have been born by now._ She dreamt that it was a girl, all dark haired and with gray eyes like her, and she taught Jon’s daughter what it meant to ride and how to balance on your toes.

By the time she woke on the second day, all of her clothes were dried. They were damp, but not wet, and that was enough to keep her from shivering. From the hill she could see the wreck of the _Taerhys Sothjor_ , the wooden beams poking above the waves. The green and white mast floated along the sea foam, and Arya wondered how long until it sank to the bottom.

_I don’t know where I am, but I know that there are pirates in Essos._

She climbed her way over the dunes, away from the shore. She heard the clamor of monkeys scurry across the trees above her. Arya didn’t know how big the island was…or even if she was on an island at all. But she wouldn’t know so long as she stayed on the shore. _I stay on the shore I can be seen. I stay on the shore and I will never know where I am. How close I am to Astapor. Or how far._

After Nymeria came back with a ferret, and Arya learned just how vile raw ferrets tasted, she resolved to set up a fire. She remembered something about rubbing sticks together, but everything she found was damp and wet. No matter how hard she rubbed the sticks, how many leaves she piled under the sticks, she could produce no smoke. Once her palms started to chafe and with no fire to show for it, Arya gave up.

Arya climbed, above the sand dunes, crossing over toppled trees and riverbeds, to the highest hill she could find. She hoped that she would have found some sign of a city, mountains that overlooked roads, a sign that Arya was closer to Jon.

All she could see was the rolling sea.

 _I will not die here. I will not be bones for another to find._ She would not be like the other souls on the _Taerhys Sothjor_.

On the third day, Arya made her return to the shore. The crabs had made a meal out of Captain Hiesor. His bones were poking out of his swollen belly. But Arya didn’t come for the captain – she came for what was on his ship. Or, rather what of his ship that had been swept to the shore. The seas were filled with pirates, and if Arya was to hope for a ship to come by, she had to prepare for pirates.

She needed something to bargain with. And luck would give her an entire cog’s worth of precious things to bargain with. Most of the Myrish laces were too stained by the sea to worth a trader’s eye, but they could serve in holding more than an armful of fruit. She rolled the barrels of spices into the jungle and hid them well, and she would have buried them if she could. But they were far too big for it, and she didn’t have a shovel.  However, she did find a small chest full of pearls from Volantis. That was buried, near a small pond where the ground was soft and most of the birds seemed to chirp and screech the loudest.

 _If slavers come for me, I will give them something worth just as much as a girl. I will give them spices and jewels. Maybe that will buy me passage away from here._ It was half a fool’s gamble, she knew, a hope and a prayer, but it was all she had. She could very well reveal the pearls and the spices, and they decide to clamp her in irons anyway.

After that, the days into weeks and the weeks became…Arya could not rightfully say. Too many suns turned into moons, and too many moons into suns, for her to truly know just how much time has passed. In the day she and Nymeria would hunt and scavenge, tracking down the exotic beasts of a thousand different colors.

It took only one day of her doing nothing but spreading her legs far apart and shitting for her to commit herself to learning how to start a flame. It took her the better part of the next day, and by the end of it she felt lighter than air and her stomach felt tight knit in hunger pains. But after that she never ate a single bit of raw flesh.

Amongst the jewels and fleshes, the _Taerhys Sothjor_ had also packaged knives. They were beautiful things, better suited for a dining table than in the wilderness. But as thin as they were, they were still better suited for skinning flesh than her fingers were. It wasn’t long until all their beauties had faded away, and they were covered in scratches and dents. But they still cut, and that was all that mattered.

She and Nymeria were not alone on the island. Birds with radiant coats made their nests in the trees, monkeys scurried over her, and demons claimed the caves as home. One day she encountered one of them – it had the smoothest and darkest coat Arya have ever seen, with long and thin fangs and golden eyes. It hisses and growled at her, daring her to come close. But Arya had Needle in her hand, and Nymeria. at her side. By the night’s end the demon was cooked flesh in her stomach, and the demon’s pelt kept her warm when it rained.

Demons weren’t the only thing on the island. There were also dragons. They didn’t have wings, and they never breathed any fire, but Arya had seen pictures of lizardlions before, and these massive and slow moving scaled monsters were nothing like the sigil of House Reed.

Her clothes were already in bad shape when the storm hit, but it only got worse on the island. By the end of the first week, her trousers were nothing but rags. She stopped counting how long she had been on the island by the time her shirt was nothing but torn threads caked in mud and sand.

 _Mother wouldn’t even recognize me_ she reflected one day, as she stared in a pool of water. Her hair had long since grown back, but she was more naked than she wasn’t. _If the Skagsoi are as savage as I hear, I would fit right in._ The demon pelt clung over her head, and her face was covered in dirt and mud. Easier to creep on prey if they can’t smell you. A bird’s feather was in her hair, so Arya could get a sense of the wind, and the dining knife hung from her leg.

If she lived on this island to the end of her days, what would they say when they found her bones? Perhaps they would think that she always lived here, that she was the Wild Girl of the Island.

 _I won’t be a corpse. I won’t die here._ She started to say that to herself every morning and every night. _I will find a way to escape. I will reach Astapor._

Her escape would come in the form of masts, blue stripes along white ones.  It was midday, the sun was high, the heat was the hottest it would ever be, and from the tip of a hill Arya saw the galleys and cogs. She had heard the beat of their drums before she saw their masts, and when she did she strained to see a sigil, a sign of who they were and what banner they sailed under. But all Arya could see were the blue and white stripes. For all the good that did her, they may as well have been black.

As she and Nymeria raced through the jungle, Arya knew where the drums were beating towards. The ships were heading for the island. _Her_ island, the island she has claimed over these many weeks, where she lived and breathed and ate from. The island where she hid the treasures from the _Taerhys Sothjor_.

_Let the island belong to someone else. I am destined for Astapor._

Arya found her treasures. She found the barrels filled with spices, and the caches of Volantene pearls, and she gathered the silver forks and spoons. It was all one big, fat, mess of glistering treasures piled in every direction.

For a moment, Arya considered where she would bring them all. How she would drag them. _I could have left them buried._ But she had thought on that many times, and Arya realized that would be fruitless. If the sails were pirates, they could just as easily lie about a trade and then just shackle her in fetters. There was no point to keeping them fettered.

She thought of approaching them on the beach, but then Arya saw a reflection of herself in a pool of water. She was dressed in rags, covered in filth, her hair was ragged, her lips were cut and bruised, her fingernails were a ruin of dirt and scabs. Arya looked like every bit a savage, and the first thing the sailors would do when they saw her would be to run her down. _That’s what I would do, if I were them._

They could just as easily come for her. If they tried to trap her in fetters, she would fight, with tooth and steel. She had made this her island, and she would make it their grave as well. She had learned where all the caves grew out from the earth, the prowls of the night beasts and where the plants grew thickest. She would become the ghost of this place, hunting and stalking in the night, and the only thing she would let her enemies dream of would be death.

Arya nestled herself among the barrels and the small chests. They would find her soon enough. And when they did, she would be waiting.

 

THE WOLFGUARD

 

From atop the _Titan_ , Jory Cassel looked onto the island. They had passed by larger ones, but the Sealord gave the command that they would make camp. “Why rest there? We are just delaying Astapor.” It had been a few months since they set sail from Braavos, he and Harwin and Alyn and the thirty-two ships of the fleet. The Braavosi fleet had diverted with care around the ruins of Valyria. Ever since Jory had first met the Sealord, he had never seen Tormo Fregar flinch.

Except in reference to the Targaryen homeland. “One must tread carefully around Fallen Valyria.” His twitch of a smile may as well have been gasps of fear. Jory knew then that, no matter how long it would take, swerving around Valyria would be slow.

Jory had no doubt that the number of ships would make it slow going as well. The fleet easily numbered ten of thousand sailors, oarsmen, archers and sellswords. One does not just gather an army of that size so quickly without people knowing about it. They had to sail pass Pentos, Tyrosh and Lys, and the Sealord did all he could to give them as wide of a berth as possible. The Free Cities were not in his eyes.

Delay followed delay, and caution filled Fregar’s every step. For all his talks of liberation and a crusade against slavery, the Sealord Elect was a considerate man. He always seemed to find a reason to slow his advance. _This man is not Robert Baratheon._ Jory had heard a thing or two about Stannis Baratheon. He imagined the Lord of Dragonstone and the Sealord of Braavos would have a gritting conversation.

“We rest here,” Tormo Fregar said from the hold, “because men can only live off of salted pork and suck on lime for so long. Fresh food adds endurance.”

Jory had lusts for bigger tastes than some fresh fruit. As much as he tired of sleeping on a rocking ship, he wanted to set his foot on dry land. He wanted to find Jon Snow and his Targaryen. _You know she has given birth by now._ And he knew that Jon would not have accepted death. He must have had a plan. He, Daenerys and the babe were somewhere in Astapor.

“They are not dead,” Harwin said one day. “I walked Jon when he was learning to ride a pony. I saw that boy grow up. Of all his sons, I see Lord Eddard in him the most. And he always had a plan.”

“Do you believe that?” Jory remembered the way Alyn looked into the distance, so the others wouldn’t see his eyes. “Can you be so certain?”

“Yes,” Harwin said. “Without a doubt. Jon and his babe is alive. I promise you that.”

Rowboats from the _Titan_ , the _Unchained_ , and the _First Sword_ beat their way towards the island. Jory could see the remnants of a ship rise above the clear waters. “Must have been a storm,” said a sailor. “Nasty work on that vessel.”

“I can make out a name,” said another as he squinted. “The _Taerhys Sothjor_. Sounds Valyrian.”

“Sounds Volantene,” muttered another. “No surprise that. Slavers love to trade with other slavers.”

Jory knew as soon as they landed on the beach that the ground was too soft for the poles. “Look at this,” he said as he dug his boot in. “The tent will topple over as soon as you spit.”

“Then we go further in,” a seaman said. He pointed towards the trees. “Worst comes to worst, we can make canopies. Cut down some of the trees for firewood.” He twisted his hands on his spear. “Hunt some pig. Have you ever had roasted pig, Westerosi?”

Alyn grunted. “Of course we’ve fucking had roasted pig. We’re not Wildlings.”

“What’s a Wildling?”

“Someone who’s never had roasted pig,” Jory answered. He could hear the snickering as he made his way into the island. His boots dug into the curves of the dune when he heard Harwin yell about something. Jory turned his head and saw Harwin waving in the distance. He motioned for Alyn to follow.

“Look at this,” Harwin pointed with a spade. Jory could see the skeleton that was covered in crabs. “I don’t think it’s old. I think this is a new addition.”

“What makes you say that?” Alyn asked.

“Because it _stinks_. And we found some other graves.” Harwin pointed a thumb over his shoulder towards some mounds.

“Survivors from the ship we saw.” Alyn turned towards him. “What was it called? Haeptmis Sojourn?”

“ _Taerhys Sothjor_ ,” Jory said. He planted fists into his side. “There must be a survivor.”

Harwin frowned. “Think that could be a problem?”

“No,” Jory shook his head. “It was probably just a trading cog. Come on,” he said as he grabbed his spear. “I’m tired of salted pork. Let’s hunt some pig.”

The jungle was full of screams and roars and rustling trees. No man had ever touched this place, not for long. Jory didn’t doubt that someone did survive the wreckage of that ship. Someone had to bury all those bodies. _But what about the corpse? That one wasn’t given a burial._ Someone on that cog had a grudge. Thinking on it, that was probably the captain. _Must have given a good reason to not be buried._

“I could use some pig,” Alyn said wistfully. Jory wondered if the boy realized he was drooling. “Something nice and _fat_ , with grease dribbling down my cheek.”

Harwin smiled. “Quiet boy, or else you’ll scare all the pig away. May have to suffer for one of these birds.” Jory heard something rattle a distant tree. The howls of a bird echoed.

“So long as it’s fresh, Harwin, I don’t care what it is.” Jory heard the cracking of a branch, and Harwin jumped.

“Well there’s your pig,” Harwin said poking Alyn with his spear. “Go get it.”

Alyn hesitated. “Not alone. Not even Lord Eddard would take a boar with just a spear, and he would be ahorse.”

Jory stepped forward. “Come on. We keep on talking of pigs and boars and _I’m_ going to end up drooling. How big of a pig can take on three Northman?” Using the spear to climb through the foliage, he cut through the jungle. He could hear small rodents scurry at his feet, and birds take flight through the leaves. Harwin kept his bow notched. The man had the best ears under his command. “Which way do you think our meal ran?”

Harwin looked around, his eyes squinted as he considered. “That way,” he pointed. “Look at how some of the grass is trampled.”

Alyn looked down. “Must have been a big pig.” His eyes were gleaming. “A _really_ big pig.”

“Don’t talk about how big it is,” Harwin warned. “Remember, we’re the ones hunting it.” Alyn nodded and gripped his spear. “Lead the way, Jory. We’re right behind you.”

Jory led, although where he could not say. There came a point where all the green and violets of the island seemed to blend together. _This Essosi island is not the North. Harwin’s eye was as good as a bloodhound, but that was home, where the air was filled with the scent of pines. The smell here just reminds me of one of those brothels in Braavos._

If there was a point where things went wrong, it was in Braavos. Lord Stark commanded him to find Jon and bring him home. He didn’t say anything about launching a crusade against the slavers. He didn’t say anything about joining up with a Sealord, or making Daenerys Targaryen the name that summon a fleet. But here he was, months after leaving King’s Landing, hunting for a pig on an island.

And still no Jon, no Daenerys, and no child.

“Jory! Alyn!” Harwin ushered them over. “Look here.” He kicked at some trampled grass. “Something was this way.”

“Was it our pig?” Alyn looked eagerly at Harwin.

“Maybe,” he chewed at his lips. “Must have been sniffing something with his stout. The track is wider than before.”

Jory frowned. “Or it could be a pack. Could be a boar.”

“Could be.” Harwin looked to Jory. “What you say?”

“I say we find out. Keep your arrows notched.” Harwin nodded, and slipped one of his arrows into the string of his bow. Alyn trailed with pointed spear. The trail was wide, Jory had to admit, wider than the one they found before. It’s not without reason that they were following a new trail, set by a bigger pig. _A bigger pig has more meat on his bones. And more of a fight as well._ Quicker too, now that he thought on it. He hoped Harwin was as good with a bow as he claimed.

The trail ended at a stream, clear waters dividing the path. Jory could see tall trees growing on the other side, and beyond them were the rolls of hills. “Shit.” The pig could be anywhere by now.

“Looks like we lost the pig.” Harwin loosened the grip of his bow string and slipped his arrow away. Alyn leaned on his spear. “I don’t see any hint of a trail. Do you?”

Jory shook his head. “Could be anywhere by now. Across the river, upstream. Even downstream.”

Alyn tapped at the canister that hung from his belt. It rang hollow. “Might as well fill up. Let’s go downstream, get some water. There are plenty of game on this island.”

Harwin smiled. “I thought you only had an appetite for pig.”

“I have an appetite for fresh food.” Alyn rubbed at his belly. “I’ll settle for a bird if it is cooked over a fire.”

Jory knew his canister was almost empty as well. He was Northernborn – he wasn’t meant for this Essosi heat. Every day he woke up in a thick sheet of sweat. It seemed with every other step he would take a swipe off water to perch his throat. With a tap of his spear he commanded them to follow, and the three of them followed the stream.

They were led to a wide pool, that was for certain. But when they saw what towered over it, Harwin’s eyes went as wide as a bowl and Alyn cursed under his breath. Jory was very still. A small mountain of chests and barrels, littered with the glow of silver forks and spoons, laid in the middle of the jungle.

“Someone was here,” Harwin said.

“One of the survivors.” Alyn tightened the hold on his spear.

Jory looked around him, trying to find some trace beyond the bushes and the trees. All he saw were leaves being rustled by the wind. “Careful,” he said. “Don’t know how long they have been here.”

“Gone mad, you think?” Harwin slowly withdrew an arrow.

“Mayhaps. All alone, surrounded by beasts for years? I’d go half-mad myself. But if they can listen, they can talk. Don’t need to shed blood if we don’t need to.” _Don’t know how many are out there._ “Alyn, check the chests.” He heard the boy gulp. “We’ll be right behind you. Keep your spear close.”

Alyn nodded, but Jory could still see the apprehension in his eyes. Jory couldn’t blame him. He didn’t know this place, didn’t know who lived here, didn’t know what lurked around the corner. _I am a mouse caught in a trap._ Alyn took a step.

A twig snapped, and it was as loud as the shattering of the world. In a moment Jory and Alyn pointed their spears in opposing directions, and Harwin had his bow notched to his ear. After that there was only silence.

And then there was a voice. “Who are you?” Jory could almost hear it from every direction at once. _I’m going mad._

Jory turned. Every tree was rustling, ever grass was swayed by the wind. He could hear all of the birds in the world cry out in the distance. Harwin slowly turned, pointing this way and that way. Jory could feel sweat trickle through his grip. “We are of Winterfell.” No answer. “Of Winterfell!”

“You belonged to Eddard Stark!” Jory heard something move swiftly through the jungle. “Where were you when he needed you? Where were you when he was killed?”

Alyn had gone as pale as moonlight. “We were not there.” _I swore to protect him. I swore to bring his son home._ “He gave us a mission. I swore a vow!”

“And what was that vow?”

“To bring his son home. Who are you?”

“A girl,” the voice answered back. “Far from home”

“The _Taerhys Sothjor_ ,” whispered Harwin.

Jory steadied his pace. He heard leaves rustle behind him. Alyn whipped around, his hands in a firm grip around the shaft of his spear. “Where you on the broken cog? The _Taerhys Sothjor_?” Jory could only the screeches of monkeys. “Do you have a name, girl?” The silence prevailed. He could feel Harwin looking at him, waiting for an answer. _She needs reason to trust us._ He bent his knee, and carefully laid his spear on the wet grass. “My name is Jory Cassel!”

It was then she stepped out from the shadows. Her hair was wild and tangled with leaves and dirt, her faces was coated in mud, and her clothes were desecrated and in a ruin. But Jory could never mistake that face, that look so like her aunt, nor could he miss the sword that hung for her side. And if there was any doubt, the wolf at her side dispelled all of it. Jory could not mistake Nymeria’s golden eyes, or the wolfish grin of Arya Stark.

“Hello, Jory,” her voice cracked.

 

THE SHE-WOLF OF WINTERFELL

 

The _Titan_ was, beyond a doubt, the biggest ship Arya had ever seen. Three massive sails were rolled against their masts, and Arya managed to count a hundred oars before she was brought up to deck. That would mean close to two-hundred wooden blades to cut through the waters. The _Titan_ was a very fast ship. At first Arya wondered what had taken them so long, but then she saw the other ships in the distance. _Just how many ships do you have?_

As she climbed the rope ladder over the rails, a short man was waiting for her. “We heard you brought us a guest, Jory Cassel.”

“She is Lady Arya,” Jory huffed. “Daughter of our lord.”

The man looked at her. “You are a long way from home, Arya Stark.” He sniffed with disapproval. “I am Meero Syrese.”

“And what are you?” Arya asked.

The man smiled, and his wrinkles crinkled. “A freed slave, who so happens to have the ears and faith of the most powerful man in all of Braavos. Come on, follow me. The Sealord wishes to meet you.”

“He was waiting for me?”

Meero turned towards her. “I would not say wait. Does a statue wait? Still, he is expecting you.” They were led below deck. Meero kept a steady pace, not turning his head to see how Arya was faring. _I’ve been on ships before. I can handle my steps just fine._ The gentle waves rocked the _Titan_ , and the ship groaned in response. When Arya sailed to Myr, she thought it was like being in the belly of a beast. But she had spent so much time on a ship now, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. There was something awesome about seeing the sea. The sea made Arya feel small and content. _That’s the Tully in me. I am just as much a fish as I am a wolf._

They were led to the end of a long hall. “Right this way,” Meero Syrese chirped. He opened the door.

Tormo Fregar was stone. If he was surprised that Arya Stark was escorted before him, he did not show it. His fingers were folded beneath his chin, and his blue eyes stared. Behind him stood a bald man with sun-licked skin. _Talrios Fregar. The First Sword of Braavos._

“Welcome to the _Titan_ ,” the First Sword smiled. “It seems to be crawling with Westerosi as of late.”

A small, ripe tomato was right in front of her. It taunted her. Arya considered ignoring it, to appear the wild girl that was resistant to all temptations. Arya plucked the tomato from the dish and casted it into her mouth, and savored the juices that slipped from her lips. “We make fine company.”

 “That remains to be seen,” spoke Tormo. “How long were you on that island?”

“Long enough.” She could see that the Braavosi was not satisfied. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Longer than a month. Longer than I should.”

“You were the only one to survive the _Taerhys Sothjor_.”

“Someone had to bury them.”

“Lady Arya,” and she felt Jory lay a tender hand on her shoulder. “How many?”

It had been so long ago. It felt like half an age since she awoke on the beach. “A dozen, maybe?”

“And the one you did not bury.” Tormo Fregar narrowed his eyes “What did he deserve to be eaten by crabs?”

“He was a slaver.”

He snorted. “A worthy death then.” He tapped at the wide wooden desk. “Kings Landing to Volantis to here. Who aided you?”

“Your wrong on a count.” The man said not a word. “I escaped Kings Landing, made my way to a small port town, sailed for Myr, and waded through the Disputed Lands.”

“Alone? I doubt it. You are resourceful, but to make it this far by yourself is beyond anyone.”

Meero Syrese snorted. “Myr, Tyrosh and Lys are on the brink of war. _Again_. No way she could have left the city without help.”

“Not _me_ ,” she insisted. “I had Nymeria with me.”

Tormo Fregar did not flinch. “That is not what I meant.”

Arya chewed on her lip. “I met with the Golden Company in Myr. I was stuck there for weeks.”

“The war with Lys and Tyrosh.” Tormo Fregar frowned. “The Three Whores are always at it. Slavery makes a man’s greed grow beyond his means.” The Sealord leaned forward. “You have yet to give me an answer.”

“I gave you one.”

“A half-truth. A lie. I would have the truth, girl, or you can stay on that island.”

Jory and Harwin and Alyn stepped forward. “Now, wait here!” Cassel urged. “You won’t-“

She turned to face him. “Jory,” she said, in the hardest voice she could. He looked at her, and for the longest time spoke not a word. Then he shook his head, muttered an apology under his breath, and stepped back. She turned to face the Braavosi. “I found the Golden Company in Myr.”

Tormo Fregar rubbed at his beard. “So, they did break their contract. Why?”

“Because they have Prince Aegon. Rhaegar’s son. And he wants his aunt.”

The only sound was the creaking of the ship. Then she heard Harwin struggle to speak. “No…everyone knows that Rhaegar’s children are dead. The Lannisters killed them. Aegon had his face smashed in. He was just a babe…”

Talrios looked to his brother. “Obviously, the Golden Company have reason to believe likewise. If Aegon is alive, this changes everything.”

“This changes nothing. Girl, why did they let you leave?”

“Because they were trapped in Volantis. Aegon came to me, and insisted I go ahead.”

Tormo Fregar furrowed his brow. “Girl, why would this Aegon do this?”

“Because he needs Daenerys and his uncle. Everyone knows that she is the Mad King’s Daughter. And Viserys had seen him when he was a baby. He would recognize Aegon instantly. But Aegon only has his word, and the backing of the Golden Company.”

Alyn spat. “That’s what the legion of Bittersteel are worth.”

“Whomever this Aegon is the son of, he has the right of it.” The Sealord leaned into his seat, but his gaze lingered on Arya. “Without the support of Daenerys Targaryen and her brother, he has no hope for the Iron Throne.” He looked to Talrios, and Arya saw him spread his lips into something that resembled a smile. “Brother, we are in a race.”

“And we are winning. If that’s not good fortune, I don’t know what is.”

“We are still racing into a fog. And I will see that fog dispersed. We need answers on what is going on in Astapor. Does Khal Drogo live? Has the Golden Horde been dispersed?”

Arya shrugged.

“I thought as much. But, Arya Stark, you are resourceful. And capable. More so than any other man here. My brother excluded.”

“Good to know I am held in such high regard.”

“But the First Sword of Braavos needs to be with the Sealord. Rites must be upheld.” Tormo Fregar of Braavos lifted up a parchment, his blue eyes studying the words. “The _Unbroken_ should suffice.”

“I agree.” Talrios Fregar looked at Arya. “She’s quick enough, and she is captained by Nalsreos Tarepor. A good man, a true Braavosi.”

The Sealord snorted. “I would hope so. Arya Stark, tomorrow you will board the _Unbroken_. It a small war cog, with twenty sailors.”

“And what will I do with them?”

“Sail for Astapor ahead of the fleet. You made it this far on your own…and with the blessing of the Golden Company. Find out what has happened. Does Khal Drogo rule it? Was the Golden Horde broken by the Unsullied? Where is Daenerys Targaryen?”

_Where is Jon Snow?_

Jory Cassel didn’t approve. “She is the daughter of my lord. I will not see her alone.” His fingers tightened around the back of her chair. “I will not abandon her to this folly.”

Tormo Fregar shrugged. “Of course not. My brother will go with you.”

His brother smiled. “I know I spoke of rites. Well, some traditions are meant to be broken.”

“Not the wisest course of action,” Meero Syrese frowned. “The Sealord should keep his protector with him. Always.”

Talrios chuckled. “You’re a free man, Meero, but you still think like a slave. If my brother is not safe on his own fleet, he has bigger things to worry about. Besides, someone needs to guide the pups in Astapor.”

“I am no _pup_ ,” Arya said with a scrunch of her nose.

“But not a wolf either. How many words of Valyrian can you speak?” Arya was silent. “Thought as much. Can’t go engaging with sellswords if all you can speak is the Common Tongue.”

“Mercenaries?” Jory raised his brow. “You never mentioned anything about mercenaries, Fregar.”

“Because I never had reason to.” The Sealord furrowed his brow. “The Thousand Sons, the Storm Crows and the Windblown. They were a part of Khal Drogo’s Golden Horde when he marched on Astapor.”

“Very convenient,” mused Harwin.

“Not at all. They were paid. Their commanders were well compensated for their subterfuge. If Khal Drogo had won Astapor, we have agents on the inside. If he was defeated, they are pocketed among the hills of the city.”

“But we are in the dark,” spoke up Meero Syrese. “A little light would go a long way. The Tattered Prince of the Windblown, Mero of the Second Sons…and Daario Naharis of the Stormcrows. There were three captains for the Crows, but we ran into complications.”

The Sealord leaned on the table. “Define complications.”

“They wanted more money, more than what was agreed. I arranged for Daario Naharis to take sole command…as well as the entirety of the contract. Now we only have one captain for the Stormcrows, instead of three bickering ones.”

Jory stepped forward. “We get to Astapor, talk to these sellswords, find out what is going on…then what?”

Telrios Fregar smiled, and Arya could see a gleam in the eyes of the First Sword. “Fire, chaos, and ruin to the Wise Masters. Freedom.”

 

THE SHE-WOLF OF WINTERFELL

 

The Red City loomed before them. Arya could see pink walls, and above them were pyramids as black as pitch. Some of them were as big as Winterfell, and Arya wondered if some were even taller. Merchant cogs littered the ports, and Arya could almost hear the clanging of irons. _Cha-kunk, cha-kunk_. Men and women with irons tight around their throats, their downward glances facing the stone path. _This should make me ill._ Instead, Arya just felt his fingers tighten into a fist at her side. She found comfort in the grooves of Needle’s hilt.

Jory didn’t look pleased either. His arms were crossed at his chest, but his face was stern. He was looking to Astapor.

The words went unsaid. _Jon is there. We will brave Astapor for him._ But Arya had only look at Jory’s eyes to see the determination in them.

When she boarded the _Unbroken_ a week ago, she wished for swift winds. Now she was not so certain. A few more days so she would not need to behold this city of slaves, to not need to hear the sound of men made to serve another. A few more days to keep from thinking that Jon was somehow in here. Or Daenerys and their babe. _She gave birth by now. A new Stark is in the world, and instead of the comforts of Winterfell, his first sights are the crimson stones of Astapor._

“Does this Khal Drogo have a banner?” Harwin was leaning over the rail, his sharp eyes focused.

Jory shrugged. “I don’t know the way of these horse lord.”

“He should,” Harwin persisted. “If he conquered the city, Astapor would be covered in banners of the horse. But I see nothing.”

Despite how much Jory doubted it, Arya thought Harwin had the truth of it. If this Khal Drogo had half the pride that they all had been told, the city would be covered in banners. Or marks of ruin, smoldering pyramids, and the hanging dead. Anything to show the world that Khal Drogo conquered this city.

But Astapor was pristine, a glimmering red stone against the sea. Khal Drogo had failed. Perhaps he was even dead, a corpse on some field somewhere. Lost and forgotten for his follies.

_But then where is Jon?_

Talrios Fregar emerged from below deck, his blue wig snugly fit on his head. She remembered the first time he had fitted it on him – he looked anything but a Braavosi. He looked absurd, ridicules, opulent. “A man ready to partake in slavery,” he had smiled. “No son of Braavos would be caught dead within these walls. But a Tyroshi with hair dyed blue? Why, who would think twice?”

 _No man of Astapor_. They were going to be like shadowcats, stealthily making their way beneath the noses of the Masters. When they beheld the _Unbroken_ , they would see only a travel cog. They wouldn’t know it for housing insurgents. They couldn’t know that the sons of the North were coming to save one of their own. That a dragon would be freed by their efforts.

“Whatever happens, I will do the talking,” Talrios had instructed. “I am the best at Valyrian. I know the language as well as the Common Tongue. The rest of you, do your best to not get involved in conversation. Jory Cassel, I know you are nobleborn. You must know some of the tongue?”

“A few words. Just enough.”

“Not in Astapor. You are second best. Be quiet unless spoken to. Arya Stark, you are third best. Keep that mouth of yours sealed.”

“I don’t know any of Valyrian.”

“That’s why you are third best. Stay quiet.”

One fact was clear – she had to rely on Talrios Fregar. Arya still wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Syrio Forel was from Braavos, and if he was here, Arya would follow every word of his. Without fail. But who was this Talrios Fregar? He serves his brother, and his brother wants Jon and Daenerys Targaryen. “He wants to end slavery,” Jory had answered when she pressed him. “And he thinks Daenerys is the key to do it. And Jon is how he will find her.” _He wants to end slavery. His brother has raised a fleet to do it._ Arya should trust him, but she can’t. Every bone in her said that the Fregar brothers need be kept a swords length away.

Whatever his ambitions, Arya must rely on Talrios.

“Brace your senses,” he had warned them as the _Unbroken_ sailed into port. “Astapor is a siege on those new to it.” She did not understand him then, but then the thick scent of brimstone washed over them. She had nearly choked on it, it was so thick. And when she stepped off onto the port, her eyes began to water and sting. “It’s the bricks,” Talrios explained. “Their dust stings the eyes, and the monuments are hammered from bronze. The odor is terrible.”

_This isn’t a city. It’s one of the hells._

Before they passed by the gates of golden harpies, Talrios pulled her aside. “Remember what you are, Arya Stark.”

She looked at him. “I know what I am. I am of Westeros.”

“No!” he hissed. “You are just another Essosi, or maybe your parents were Westerosi. But you are not. Slavery is a common thing for you. You will not flinch at the sight. When you see naked children being sold, you will give only a cursory glance. When you see defiant slaves being crucified, you may even smile. Do you understand me, Essosi?”

“I understand” she said. But then she saw naked boys and girls being pushed onto platforms, and it took all Arya had to keep from screaming. She could see the paleness on Jory’s face, and Arya had to put his fists behind his back. _We are wolves pretending to be cats. How long until they notice we have tucked our tails?_

Arya sucked on her tongue as she padded her way through the red streets. Nymeria was cast down, her jaw muzzled closed to the ground. She could feel the direwolf’s aggravations. Arya could at least cover her face with her sleeve, but Nymeria had no respite. The stinging sands of Astapor were a constant source of suffering for her.

“Where are we going, Talrios?” Harwin’s gaze could not help but linger on an iron cage of slaves, no doubt bound for their new masters.

“A safe haven, for a day or two. We need time to organize a meeting with our friends.”

“Are they not on your pay?”

The First Sword smiled. “You obviously have never met a sellsword, Andal. They care for their lives more than for coin. They will come…when the time is right. And by right, I mean safe.”

“And what about the sailors?” asked Jory. “The crew of the _Unbroken_.”

“You haven’t forgotten about the fresh fruit we loaded? The ones we liberated from the island?” Arya didn’t. She had hungered for a banana the entire time, but Talrios had forbidden it. “They will sell their stock and leave. No hint that we came from that cog.” He smiled, and if it was possible, the blue hair made Talrios Fregar even more nefarious. “But we will see them again, have no fears.”

Arya had no fears on that count. It was the circumstances of their reunion that made her wary.

It was not long for them to find the sanctuary that Talrios had promised, although it hardly looked as such. The apartment was made from brown stones, rain licked and worn, and was a tall and thin thing squeezed between some much larger structures. She could see curtains swaying in the harsh breeze, but they were moth eaten and well worn.

At some point, the apartment was besieged by dust. And the dust won. The moment that Talrios unlocked the door and swung it open, a wave of gray dust flew. Already Arya could feel the irritation in her eyes. Nymeria whimpered, and her father’s loyal guards were coughing up their lungs.

Talrios cleared his throat. “It is not much,” he admitted, “but it is a roof over our heads.” His boots straightened out a moldy carpet. Arya could hear the scurrying of mice, and thick cobwebs that plagued the corners. “We are not to be here long,” Talrios insisted. “Just long enough.”

“For what?”

To that Talrios said nothing. To that Arya decided she would explore this ruined home. For places of comfort, to see just how many beds could be used, for how tight the corridors could be packed in case of invaders. She wasn’t satisfied on any count. All of the cushions were as stiff as a board, and the mattresses too full with dust to have any hope for a good night’s rest. And if the Astaporis were to know who lived here, and what they intended, there was little hope for a defense. The corridors were too wide, the doors too weak, the hinges too rusted.

But Talrios Fregar said that they would not linger long. A sanctuary that would be short lived.

He was not wrong.

On the second night, they came. They were wrapped in traveler’s cloaks, their faces veiled by the cloth. To Arya’s mind, they could not have looked more suspect. “A welcoming abode,” smiled Brown Ben Plumm as he untied the cloak around his neck. He had dark skin, and his bald head gleamed in the candlelight. “I thought you Braavosis lusted for luxury.”

“Only one is Braavosi.” The man pulled back on his hood, and revealed a weathered face and hair as white as bone. His small eyes were dark, and carefully surveyed the room. “I count three Westerosis.”

“Hello, Prince,” said Talrios in his approach. The commander of the Windblown kept a quiet gaze.  “Tell me that is Daario Naharis.”

“It is he.” The man threw his cloak off of him. His hair was blue…and his moustache was gold, and Arya noticed a few of his teeth were gold as well. He looked utterly ridicules. “Once a partner in three of the Stormcrowns. Thanks to you kind sons of Braavos, I am now the sole commander.” His golden smile widened. “Already, this has been a prosperous business venture.”

The Tattered Prince kept his gaze. “Speak for your own self, Tyroshi. This arrangement changes with every hour. First you were to strike at Khal Drogo before he marched west. Now we are to instigate an insurrection within Astapor.”

“As was planned,” Talrios said pointedly. “Whether Drogo succeeded or failed, you were to integrate within Astapor. Which you have?”

“Which we have,” said the Windblown Commander. “My men are employed by the Nazchies house.”

“And the Stormcrows have been bought by the house of Trazchiecs.”

“I bargained the Second Sons with the Nierhols.” Ben smiled. “Although I do not see the Company of the Cat here. Where is the beloved Bloodbeard?”

The Tattered Prince furrowed his brow. “Six feet below the ground, if the gods are good.”

“As much you would like such a think, Majesty,” Daario Naharis said with a golden smile, “I hear that one is lingering around the bloodpits.”

“What appeal do the arenas have for him?” asked Talrios.

“Vengeance,” smirked Brown Ben. “There was an Andal that he wants dead. I hear he cost him an ear.”

“A worthy trophy,” said the Prince.

“Maybe. But this Dog of the Abyss has become the Black Hound of Astapor, bought by the house of Hrasher. The entire city is shaking with excitement for his debut.”

Arya stepped forward. “Does this Hound have a name?” Ben shrugged. “What does he look like? Is there a wolf with him?”

“Wolf?” asked Daario.

“No one knows what he looks like,” said the Second Sons commander. He looked to Talrios. “What does it matter? Just one more slave turned bloodsworne.”

“Because he could be the reason that we are here,” said Jory Cassel. “We’ve come for the son of our lord. His name is Jon Snow of Winterfell.” Daario and Brown Ben shared a glance, eyes wide. “You know him?”

“Of course we knew him,” said Daario. “He was the Andal on Khal Drogo’s council. The one who had sworn his sword to the Targaryen Khaleesi.”

“So he did swear fealty,” Jory murmured.

“More than that,” smirked Plumm. “They say that he was the one that cut down Khal Orolo on the fields of Qohor and saved Khal Drogo’s life. If this Jon Snow of yours has any hatred for the Dothraki, he has a queer way of showing it. Saving the Khal, serving him, advising him…”

“What happened to him?” Arya demanded. “Where is my brother?”

“Dead,” plainly said the Tattered Prince. “Gone, missing, away. Who can say?”

“And Daenerys Targaryen,” pressed Talrios Fregar. “Where is she?”

“Now that is the question.” Daario Naharis did not look up. His arms were crossed as he leaned against the wall. “Where is the last Targaryen? None have seen her.”

“None?” Jory shared a doubtful look with Arya. “I refuse to believe that. She is the last Targaryen. She was wed to this Khal. You can’t tell me she went up and vanished.”

“Oh,” said Daario, “but we are. Daenerys Targaryen is gone. And she has left her sworn sword behind.”


	12. Embers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the fires, life moves on. Jon struggles to survive, the sisters Stark sail with their allies towards Astapor, and Daenerys endures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND WE ARE BACK. 
> 
> I told you guys 3 months. I was late by just a week, so I think that is pretty good timing. 
> 
> So before we get started, I want to say I will not be uploading chapters on a weekly basis. There are several reasons, but the biggest is to give both my betas and myself enough time to revise each chapter. A week is not enough for me to both write as well as to give each chapter the attention it deserves. So I will keep to uploading every other week. I also will not be comiting to a specific day of the week. This is all to ensure each chapter is as perfect as we can make it before it hits the internet. 
> 
> I also have struggled with Arya's arc, and just in the last few days I have received the "eureka" moment, as it will. So this expanded timeframe gives me the space to work on that. 
> 
> "But Doublehex," I hear you saying, "you have been working on this arc for three months (and a week). Why isn't it done yet!" Well, the answer is because everything is just bigger. I am on Chapter 20 right now, and the entire arc makes up around 313 pages. For context, the entire Dothraki arc was 299, and the Astapor Arc will end at chapter 22 or 23. I can easily see the Astapor arc hitting page 400. 
> 
> Now, I also need to give a shoutout to my betas that have been instrmental in making this fic the best my meager hands can make it. SerpentGuy, as always, has been a critical perspective, and B. Koza has given me insight that I sorely lacked. 
> 
> With all that said, here is a link to my site, where you can read the chapter with the benefit of a soundtrack. http://wp.me/P7Obn3-43
> 
> Let's get this show on the road. 
> 
> Here is a link to my personal website

**XI**

**EMBERS**

**THE DAUGHTER OF WINTERFELL**

Far in the distance, shadowed under the night, Sansa could see Valyria. The sky was split crimson by the Doom that had consumed Valyria centuries ago, a dark red that spiraled and crackled. It was always thundering, always booming, always a constant reminder in the horizon. Sansa wondered what the ruins were saying to them. _Could they be saying something to me?_ It was an absurd notion. The only power left in the world remained with the Seven. And yet, Sansa could not ignore just how bright the comet was above Valyria, a bleeding star that stood out even amongst the burning sky. She tried to remember the words that Septa Mordane had taught her. _The Seven who have made us all, are listening if we should call._

But the Valyrians didn’t bow to the Seven, and neither did their dragons. Even after the scalding Doom had claimed their lives, the dragonlords still protested. She could see Old Valyria rising against the night, the burning stones of their cities dashing against the dark. Red and black, just as the colors of House Targaryen.

The dragons live still. _Jon lives still. Daenerys Targaryen lives still._ Sansa wondered how long it was since Daenerys’ womb had quickened with Jon’s child. If the gods were good, if the Mother was watching over Jon and Daenerys, it would not have been long after Father discovered it. That would mean that Ser Barristan still had time.

Valyria reached up with bony fingers, ruins of palaces and wonders, grasping for the red sky. Even in death, Valyria did not recline in defeat. _By all rights I should not even be here._ This was for the likes of Robb, who was meant to be Lord of Winterfell. But he was the King in the North now, and he was riding against the Lannisters. Bran should be at his side, as a man of three and ten who knew what it meant to squire for a knight.

Not the sister that set on the journey because she had no other choice. That wasn’t the stuff made of heroes. Sansa had heard the songs of Aemon the Dragonknight, who wept at the wedding of Queen Naerys. Symeon Star-Eyes was so devoted to protecting the people of the world that after he lost his eyes he replaced them with star sapphires. They were men of steel, who defended the innocent and protected noble ladies. There was never a song about a foolish sister that went to save her bastard brother.

And yet, there she was, sailing beneath the shadows of Valyria.

The dark thunder flashed across the bleeding sky. The more that Sansa stared, the more something boiled inside of her. The black thunder boomed again, and Sansa could see a tiniest flicker of the hot fires that still burned at Valyria. The burning comet raced above it all, and Sansa felt the freezing salt tug at her. She grabbed hold of her crimson hair and streaked it over her shoulders, the red pouring over the dark robe she wore.

_Red and black. Valyria is nothing but the dark and the bright._

It had been more than a week since they sailed from Tyrosh. She remembered as she and Ser Barristan had walked down onto the ground floor of the _Merman’s Wife_ , they had found Captain Groleo with a grim expression. “There is war,” he had mulled over a cup of something that was black and steaming.

“There is always war,” Ser Barristan had said with narrowed eyes. “Someone always wants something, and will take it with fire and sword.”

Captain Groleo chuckled at that. “That is more true than you know. Tyrosh is marshalling on Myr and Lys. Again.”

Sansa remembered how much her heart had beaten at that. “If the city wages war with the other cities, we won’t be able to leave.”

“Then we will need to move quickly, before we become trapped.” Ser Barristan had turned towards Groleo. “Captain, how fast can we move?”

His eyes were filled with doubt. “Not fast enough. I’ve already bought some supplies. Lemons and lime, fresh water, salted beef. Takes time for such things to be stored.”

“We can’t become trapped on Tyrosh.”

Groleo sipped at his drink, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Trust me, Westerosi. We won’t.”

“How?” Sansa asked, nervously. “How can you be so certain? If Tyrosh goes to war— “

“They will have little reason to form a blockade around their own ports. Tyrosh is an island city. If no ships get in –“

“They will starve,” she realized. “No food is grown in the city except beyond the black walls.”

The Captain’s beard curled as he smiled. She could see the dark drink had begun to soak into his whiskers. “As you say. Even if Tyrosh joins the fray, we still have a chance. Hope is not lost yet Lady – “

“You are speaking to my daughter, Minisa.”

The Captain had looked between them. “As you say.” He drank at his cup…and frowned in disappointment that it was empty. He let out a mournful sigh. “So, let me promise you both. We will not become trapped in Tyrosh.”

And in the end, Groleo of Pentos had fulfilled his promise. It took three days, for the _Saduleon_ , the _Joso’s Prank_ and the _Summer Sun_ to be loaded. The sailors and rolled barrels and casks filled with fruits, fresh water, salted beef and lime below the hold of the ships. “An impressive sum, to ensure we don’t starve,” Groleo had said as he sipped on peach brandy. Once the barrels were tied down, the three ships let down their sail, and by the third fourth evening, they had left Tyrosh behind.

_From Tyrosh to Astapor._ As they sailed beneath the night sky, Sansa saw the comet pierce through the sky. It used to be such a looming thing, a bleeding tear, but on that night the comet was a red slither of light. As the comet flew past the moon, Sansa thought it looked split asunder. _Less a tear, more a burning sword._ If there ever would be a sword of justice, wielded by true heroes, it would be one cast in flame. _But there are no heroes._

When the day set, and Tyrosh was a distant memory, the comet was gone. The bleeding star had bled its last.

She heard the heavy steps of Ser Barristan. The man was as used to being on the sea as she was. The seamen of the _Saduleon_ ran across its deck, but she and the knight took each step with care. “My Lady. I thought you would be in bed after dinner.”

She could not sleep. The bunk was far too narrow, and the seas rocked the hulls too hard. “I do not think I could, Ser Barristan.”

“I cannot blame you. These sailors had to have been born on the seas to sleep like they do.” She heard him get closer. “To think that is where they came from.”

“I heard Valyria was beautiful.” _Before the Doom._

“I also heard the stories. They say that the world will never see the likes of Valyria again. I remember one man in his cups said that the Doom had earned its name because it damned humanity from the boons of Valyria.”

_The songs said that great men would do great things. But did the world ever change?_ “Do you believe him, Ser Barristan?”

“No, Lady Sansa.” There was a proud look in the man’s eyes. “Valyria was a prosperous state, but it enslaved. The Targaryens were better than their forefathers. They came and brought all the kingdoms together.” She remembered what was said about Aegon the Conqueror – he brought fire and blood with his dragons, but he also gave justice and peace. _Was what the Mad King did justice? Would the Conqueror have approved?_ She could not see that he would. “I don’t believe that things have to be as they are.”

“Is that why you are seeking out Daenerys? Because she can make things better?”

“Because it is the right thing to do. Because all I can do is protect. Because _something_ must be done.”

The waters rocked at the hull of _Saduleon_. Somewhere in the distance would be the _Joso’s Prank_ and the _Summer Sun_ , trailing behind the mast of the cog. Illyrio Mopatis’ three gifts to Daenerys Targaryen were a mighty boon indeed. Three ships to secure their lives and to bring them back to Pentos. _The Magister said we had to trust him, but I still don’t want to._ She trusted Father to be kind, Mother to be wise, Robb to be brave and for Arya to always get dirt in her hair. But what would she trust Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos to do?

_I trust that everything he does is for his own benefit._

“During dinner, Groleo said it would take us another month, perhaps two, to reach Astapor. That is a long time, Ser Barristan.”

“My Lady,” he said as he laid a gentle hand on her. “You cannot lose faith. We will find your brother and Daenerys.”

“I’m not losing faith, Ser. But I know what we are playing against. It is an hourglass, and everyday I feel my feet sink further and further in. I know the seas are quicker than the road, but all I see is the water. Valyria is the only landmark since we left Tyrosh, and that is not giving me any hope.”

“I understand,” Ser Barristan said, although Sansa felt he didn’t understand at all. “I hate this waiting. We travel and travel and hope that we are fast enough. It’s the uncertainty that is the worst of it.”

“That by the time we reach Astapor, Daenerys will have given birth.”

“Father forgive me, but I fear even worse that she will reject me completely. That she will live, that her child will live, that your brother will live, and the Queen will demand that I have nothing to do with her.”

“Deny you?” He was Ser Barristan the Bold! The greatest of the Kingsguard, the one that slipped into Duskendale to rescue the Mad King. There was no finer blade in all of the Seven Kingdoms, and Sansa doubted that any Essosi sword could match him. “Ser, she would never deny you. She has no cause to.”

“My Lady,” and Ser Barristan almost laughed, “have you forgotten? I served Robert Baratheon for almost twenty years. The bodies of her niece and nephew and good-sister were laid at his feet, and I did nothing.”

“Ser,” she said, “that is true. And yet, here you are. You are risking your life for her. If she does turn you away, I do not care how much my brother loves her. She would be the biggest fool in the world.”

Ser Barristan didn’t say anything then, but he smiled. Jon would accept her, she knew it. _I have never given him cause to hate me._ She wondered sometimes how he would react when he would see her. A thousand times the scene played in her mind, and every time she would try to say the words, everything felt false and fake and unsure and none of it seemed right at all. If the gods were good, Jon wouldn’t learn of it from her at all. He would have found out already, they would just need to weep and mourn Father together.

Even with the dread of that revelation hanging over her, it would be good to see him again. It had only occurred to her when she had left King’s Landing behind, but she had missed him. Jon was Father’s bastard, but he was her brother. Half-born, but her brother, the one that would play pranks on her with Robb and Arya, the one that offered his arm with gentle touches. The one that wanted to be a knight on the Wall.

Instead, Jon was sent by Father to Essos, to try to make a life of his own choosing. And he chose a life with the last Targaryen princess. _Is there a song in that? Will they sing about the Princess that loved a bastard?_

She remembered how the snow would melt in his dark hair, how he and Robb would match each other swing for swing in the yard, the soft laughs he shared with Bran, and the way he would rustle Arya’s hair.

“He is still alive,” Sansa said, to the ruins of Valyria, to the salty air, to Ser Barristan, and to herself. “He is alive, Daenerys Targaryen is alive, their baby will live, and you will protect them all.”

“Yes, you are right. Daenerys Targaryen did not survive the attempts by Robert Baratheon to die at the hands of a Dothraki warlord. I was wrong to doubt.”

“No, ser.” _But questions still need to be answered._ “I cannot, help but think she would have questions, as would my brother.” She turned towards him. “As would I.”

“About Rhaegar,” he said stiffly.

“About Lyanna,” she said as she leaned against the railings of the ship. The thunder above Valyria crackled behind her. “My father never said anything about his sister. But we all saw her face in the crypts. She was beautiful; everyone said so.”

“I could say the same, My Lady. Your aunt was very beautiful. And I heard she had a courageous heart.”

Sansa frowned at that. “However brave she was, that did not stop Rhaegar Targaryen from taking her. Why would he do that, Ser?”

“I don’t know,” and Sansa thought that Ser Barristan the Bold sounded like he was trembling. “Rhaegar was…I can’t say it was possible for any man to know him. To know the son of Aerys was like to know a storm. I think.” The knight sighed, and for a moment Sansa regretted her questions. Ser Barristan looked heavy. _But I need to know the man to know the sister._

“Ser,” she said, and that seemed to pull the weight from the man’s shoulders. He lifted his head and looked into her. “What happened when word reached you of how Rhaegar took my aunt?”

“The how of it never did reach the Red Keep. I don’t think anyone knew of how it happened, except for those in the prince’s party. It was Rhaegar Targaryen, Ser Oswyn Whent, and Ser Arthur Dayne.”

“The Sword of the Morning,” she breathed. “That’s right, I remember now. I heard that my father killed him on the battlefield.”

Barristan Selmy shook his head. “Whent and Dayne were never on any battlefield. Not on the Trident, and not at the Battle of the Bells.”

_That can’t be true. My father killed Arthur Dayne. Everyone knows that he returned the fabled sword Dawn to Starfall. Why would my father do that, were it not for ending his life?_ “Then where were they?”

“We don’t know.” Ser Barristan looked beyond her, towards the crackling ruins of Valyria. “None heard from him for over a year, until he returned to the Red Keep and marshalled the remnants of the royal forces. Seeing him again was like a sun piercing through the clouds. I had hope again.”

“Hope?” She could not keep the edge from her voice. “Hope for what? King Aerys murdered good men, innocent men that deserved a trial. And Rhaegar abandoned you for a year! Everyone knows he had run off with my aunt Lyanna. He was not there when my father’s brother…” She took in a breath. “Ser, forgive me,” she said, the words coming out of her like routine. “I should not have said those things.”

She had half thought that Ser Barristan would mutter forgiveness and excuse her to her quarters, but he did not such thing. He shook his head. “There is nothing for me to forgive.” He sighed as he leaned on the rails of the _Saduleon._ “Lady Sansa, listen to me. You were nor there when Aerys ruled. I saw him on the Stepstones, when he rode with his father’s men against the Band of the Nine. I thought so much of him then. Aerys had so much potential, living by sword and deed. He did not shiver when faced by the first true invasion we had ever seen. It seemed as if all of Essos had risen up against us to place a Blackfyre pretender on the throne. And Aerys…he stood there and laughed.

“I suppose if I was a wiser man, I could have seen the madness even then. But I couldn’t, not at first. Perhaps the fires of Summerhall were the start of it. Aerys and Queen Rhaella saw their entire family be consumed by those fires.” Ser Barristan turned from her, his hands behind his back. “That would have destroyed the soul of a weaker man. But Aerys…he lingered on for years and years.”

Ser Barristan leaned on the railings of the ship. He was peering into the waters, she saw. _What do you see in there?_ “When I rescued him at Duskendale, I thought it was my greatest achievement. But his retribution on the Darklyns weren’t justice, Lady Sansa. There was no justice killing a family to even the last child, to even the servants and the stable hands. It was then I knew that if I were to have any hope, it had to be on Prince Rhaegar.”

“Why him? He was Aerys’ son. If the King was a monster, how could you expect the Prince to be any better.”

“Because,” he said as he turned, “because Rhaegar wasn’t Aerys’ son. He was educated and well spoken. Just as with everything he did, he excelled at the lance and the sword, the harp and the song. Aerys demanded the love of his subjects. Rhaegar earned it. His friend Jon Connington, his squires Myles Mooton and Richard Lonmouth…Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. There had never been a greater gathering of heroes. Every one of them would have laid their lives down for Rhaegar.” Barristan did not speak as he quietly gripped the rails. “I would have laid down my life for him.”

“Even after what he did? My aunt was betrothed to Robert Baratheon. That was _wrong_.”

“It would have been,” softly spoke the knight, “if it were anyone but Rhaegar.”

“He raped her,” she insisted.

“No. It was not in Rhaegar to do such a thing. To say he would defile his soul like that? It is like saying your Lord Father would place Jon Snow on the Iron Throne.”

Those were all lies, she knew. Her father said the words, but Sansa knew they were false. “So she wasn’t taken? Is that what you believe; that they loved each other?”

“I don’t know.” Ser Barristan shook his head. “I sometimes wondered that myself. I thought of speaking with your father on the matter, but I never summoned the will. Lyanna was his sister, and he must have held her as she died. I couldn’t force myself to ask.”

“And if she did?” Sansa found herself asking. “If that love had produced…where would you have been?”

Ser Barristan stared into the dark waters. “I would have been with the Targaryens,” he said after a time. “I should have been with them, no matter what. That is the truth of it, Lady Sansa. I forsook my duties.”

“You protected the king.”

“I protected Robert Baratheon. The crown was placed on his head, and sometimes he would sit upon the Iron Throne, but tell me when you saw him in Winterfell that he acted as a king should.” _Winterfell._ That name sounded sweeter than any other. She was a girl of six and ten years when the King rode past Wintertown. “Viserys the Third of His Name should have been my charge. If I was there, I could have safeguarded them both. Ensured their protection, saw that both were educated as befitted their birth. Daenerys Targaryen would never have been wed to a Dothraki warlord, I promise you. None of this would have happened if I had remained true.”

“You were true,” Sansa said. “After what the Mad King did, how could any Targaryen hope to be king?”

He looked at her. “Just as what Joffrey Baratheon did?” Sansa wanted to say no, that was different. _Joffrey made me look._ The dragons were replaced with the stag. Would the same exchange happen again? The red shadows of the Doom lingered above them as they sailed past Valyria.

**THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE**

Terzac vo Hrasher was led through the dank halls. He could hear the hungry cries for blood from just beyond the thin walls. “Nyazak,” he warned, “this had best be worth it.” He hated having to go through the Abyss. The Blood Pits were a place of honor, where bloodsworne could die and give glory to the gods. He was brought there as a child, resting on Father’s knee. The Abyss was another place entire, designed for monsters and ruled by devils.

“It is,” slurred the man. “I promise. You will want to see this one.”

As of late, Terzac had begun to doubt the worth of Nyazak’s words. Terzac had relied upon many men to help procure talent for the Blood Pits. Nyazak was one of them, a street rat that knew to keep his ears close to the ground and his eyes on the slaving ships sailing into port. He had his uses, from time to time, but as of late Nyazak provided only weaklings and crowd pleasers. That would have sufficed for less proud families, but not for Terzac. His son, Alezek? Perhaps. He did not see things the way Terzac did. The house of Hrasher was a blood house of worth, of prestige. Great bloodsworne had been carved from behind their walls.

But Nyazak was persistent, and Terzac had to entertain the proposal. Alezek had wasted half a barrel of Lysene Silver in an exchange with Jhazak kul Yierpos. And all that time wasted, with no fruit to show for it. No matter how capable the boy was, he couldn’t act the fool. He would be the Master of the House when Terzac was gone. No capable leader ever partook in pleasures like how Alezek would. He needed to have some resemblance of pride.

Terzac needed to be away, for just a small time. The Abyss was not the Blood Pits, but the thrill of battle would do him some good. It would cool the nerves.

The grime and sweat was retching through the walls. Roots dangled from the ceilings like beads in a soothsayer’s tent. Once this was the estate of the Hamarqs, a family that had fallen from renown and prosperity. And almost in accord with their status, when the last of their line perished from the drink, the manor began to crumble and fall into the very earth. The city of Astapor swallowed up their estate.

But even in death, Astapor prospered. The house of the Hamarqs now served as a battling ground for the worst and most depraved that did not deserve the honors of the Blood Pits.

Nyazak led him past a painted wall, although the years had reduced the image to shedding plaster. As they turned the corner, as Terzac brushed the roots from his face, he heard the crushing of bone. They stood on a floor that overlooked a makeshift arena. Where once the guests of the Hamarqs would be welcomed, now the beasts of the world carved meat from each other. One could still see an image of the Mother Harpy beneath the mud and grime.

A man that was naked except for his leather mask stood over a corpse. The remains of the man was missing a head, Terzac realized. He wondered where it had gone, until he saw the gory sear that trailed across the wall. The man raised his bloody hands in triumph and roared, and the crowd roared with him. In the Blood Pits, the audience would be made up of the nobles of the city, merchants and slave tenderers, people from all walks of life. But as Terrzac looked down, he could only see the lice ridden filth of the streets.

“Where is the one we are supposed to see? The one they call the Black Dog?”

“He should be out shortly,” Nyazak says as he leans on the railing. “He was brought in by that…Bloodbeard.”

Terzac snorted. He had heard plenty of the works done by the Company of the Cats, and theirs was a reputation he would prefer to not be associated with. “He brought a hundred slaves from the Dothraki camps.” Many of the lesser companies had offered similar tributes to regain the favor of the city. The greater companies, such as the Second Sons and the Windblown, were nabbed by several houses without any such tribute.

“And almost all of them were killed.”

“They were given to the Blood Pits, you mean, in honored sacrifice to the Flayed Twins.” Astapor had thrown a weeklong series of games to commemorate the victory over Khal Drogo. Many Dothraki were given over to the Blood Pits to pay tribute to the gods. The Flayed Twins feasted well as Dothraki riders were forced to do battle against lions with only wooden sticks, or had to fight each other to the death with just their firsts. The youngest of them would be made into Unsullied, while the girls would be sold to Yunkai to be trained in the Art of the Sighs.

“The Black Dog lives still. Two weeks he has been sent to fight another. And always the Black Dog survives.”

“He survived all these weeks?” Terzac could not believe the words. “In the pits of this house? How many have lived past the second fight?”

“Not many, Maesra,” Nyazak said. He always spoke honorably when he was trying to soften Terzac. “The Black Dog has a fierce will to live, it would seem. And the – oh, there he is now.”

Terzac saw him. Wherever the Black Dog had called home, he was no son of Ghis. His black hair was thick and mangled with sweat, and his skin was too pale for the Essosi sun. He could have hailed from Lys, but even from the alcove Terzac saw the man’s eyes were gray, not the purple of fallen Valyria.

What the man did have were scars, and few of them were from the Abyss. The pale mark of his battles danced across his side and formed a crescent around his neck. Terzac could even see that the Dog’s right hand was once mangled, or perhaps set aflame. The Black Dog had seen many battles.

Slaves dug meat hooks into the corpse and dragged it away, leaving a brilliant red trail to the salvage chambers. The man in the leather mask barked and growled as he was pushed away. “Who is his opponent?”

Nyazak shrugged. “Some newcomer without a doubt. Master Terzac, you know well that none survive the Abyss for long.” The man had the right of it. The Blood Pits were where bloodsworne of repute and honor fought for the glory of the gods. As well as to appease the masses, that much cannot be forgotten. But the Abyss was reserved for the treasonous and the heathens, the monsters and beasts of the streets that the city would not tolerate. The Blood Pits were the avenue to a higher purpose, while the Abyss was a death sentence.

And yet, this Black Dog lived. Terzac wondered if he was thriving in this cesspool. Many that live beyond their first day turned into something between beast and man. The Butcher would carve the faces of his victims and wear them. Hajezak Many-Ears had a necklace of ears that he hung around his neck, and the Howler would scream restlessly as she chopped her enemies to meaty morsels. It was said she had been as quiet as the wind as the Hound Lord sent his dogs to tear her apart.

But when Terzac looked into the gray eyes of this Dog, he did not see a beast. The man would not even look at him. His attention was fixed on another in the crowd, one with a flaming beard and dressed in boiled leather. “Who is that man?” Terzac motion to Nyazak. “Is that Bloodbeard?”

“Without a doubt. He always comes to watch the Black Dog fight. And he is always seen leaving in a rage.”

If Nyazak had more to say, than the arbitrator put a stop to it. He whistled and some burly slaves dragged into the arena a man covered in scars and thin muscles. Pox scars covered the side of his face. Almost in reflex Terzac scratched his face. He knew what it was like to feel death on your door, your body covered in a hot flame and a sheen of cold sweet. _Sharea._ She had been wrapped in linen before given over to the pyre.

“The Black Dog!” the Arbitrator announced. The man was almost naked himself, save for the lion’s skull that shadowed his head. _Even the ones that oversee this place are gruesome creatures._ “A loathsome servant of the Dothraki Horde who refuses to die!” The crowd cheered, thirsty for blood. A few howled. “And will Heraktor claim his life? He, who was found guilty of crimes left unspoken, lest they taint even these halls?” The people just as much showed their disdain as they did roar out. “Only the Abyss will decide!”

Despite their differences, the Blood Pits and the Abyss shared one thing – the roar of the crowd, the exhilaration of the people as they anticipate the shedding of blood. In a few moments, the two men in the arena would be fighting for their lives. A moment’s hesitation, and one man shall be hailed as victor while the other would feel his life drain from his mangled body. There were few things better than this anticipation.

The two combatants felt around the pot. The pervert pulled out a wooden block with an iron thorn sticking out of it. “Cleaver!” the arbitrator announced, to the accommodations of the crowd. The man was nothing compared to the overseers of the Blood Pits, but few men were. The Black Dog dug his hand into the pot, and he pulled a worn rag, black with old sweat and eaten by moths. “Glove of thorns!” The crowd roared out in chaos, thundering their feet into the rotten floor.

The Black Dog and Heraktor were given their weapons. Heraktor’s cleaver was worn with use, but it had a long shaft. If the man had knowledge of a sword beyond the one between his legs, he would use the reach to keep the Black Dog away. That one had his hands wrapped in leather gloves, crude blades poking from his knuckles. No doubt it was uncomfortable to wear, but once the Dog got in close Heraktor was dead.

Terzac saw a gong, raised on a platform over the arena. A Summer Islander boy with a stump of an arm wielded a small hammer. He bashed the hammer against the gong, and it rang through the house. “Begin!” roared the Arbitrator, his lion skull clanking against his flesh.

Herakor must have resigned himself to his fate. As soon as the order was given he leapt ahead. His balance was off. The man had no right to hold a weapon, but at least he knew he had an advantage. His chops were slow and awkward, but even a fool swing could end a life. The Dog, however, had experience. He knew he had to dodge the attacks. The fool was tiring himself with his heavy weapon, every swing was using too much of his precious strength. The Black Dog just had to bide his time.

He saw why the Black Dog had so much success in the Abyss, where others had fallen. The man had discipline. He must have been a mercenary of some sort that had signed up for the Khal’s gold. The Dog went from fighting for a fatter purse to just a struggle for survival. Terzac felt pride fill him. _A worthy fate._

Herakor swung his cleaver too far in too wide of an arc. The Dog smelled his chance and lunged. The blades ripped into the flesh, and Herakor howled. Even from the balcony Terzac could see the blood ooze from the wound. The crowd cheered with approval. “Dog! Dog! DOG!” He did not let up and sent another punch into Herakor’s side. He dropped the cleaver as he screamed, and his face went pink from the pain.

The Dog ripped his fists from the wound, the blades tearing at the man. Herakor tumbled over. The Black Dog’s fists were covered in red, dripping and smearing all over the floor. Terzac saw how Herakor’s chest was rising up and down in pain, his breaths wheezing and full of agony. The Black Dog looked up to the crowd. _He is not savoring the kill._

The filth of Astapor gave their demand. “Kill! Kill! Kill!” With each word came a wave of thunderous foot stomps. The sound was tremendous. It was a pale thing compared to the glories of the Blood Pits, but it still filled Terzac’s heart with excitement. _I live for this. The thrill of the fight, the glory of the arena._

Herakor reached for his weapon, a weak and pathetic attempt. The Black Dog curled his foot on the man’s wrist. Herakor screamed and slapped at the Dog’s legs, but all strength and power had left the man.

“Kill! Kill! Kill!”

The Dog obeyed. His sent his fist into Herakor’s howling face, and the man screamed no more.

“Does that one have a Master? An owner?”

“He belongs to the city,” Nyazak explained. “He was supposed to die for his crimes. But the Black Dog is a mighty warrior indeed. That one won’t die in the Abyss anytime soon.”

Terzac leaned over the rails. The man’s eyes didn’t have the mad rush of bloodlust. They were steady, reserved, and solemn. Terzac had learned how to read faces. As a Master of Bloodborne, one needed to negotiate with other patrons. Securing a favorable spot in the games was a good source of funds. But as Terzac looked into this Black Dog, he could read nothing. _He hides his feelings well._

“No, he won’t die in the Abyss.” He turned towards Nyazak. “Find the one that owns this Dog. Someone holds the leash. Say that I will meet him, gold for gold of one and a half of his auction price. And not a copper more. This Black Dog belongs to the house of Hrasher now.”

It took Nyazak a few hours to complete the task. The crowd was cheering as a man’s face was crushed by a hammer when Terzac was led down into the cells. The gaols were essentially nothing more than giant holes in the walls, with bars dug in and locks strapped on. Grass was growing through the moldy floor.

“It’s a rare thing for a Master to come here.”

“Rarer still for the Abyss to produce something of note.” Hung from the alcoves were cages. Terzac could hear their rattlings as men and women begged for release, grasping for something in the air. “Where is the Dog?”

The Gaoler scratched at his puffed nose. “Not far. We like to keep prime prizes like him away from the others. Although this one is rather…”

Terzac could feel his suspicions flare. “Disturbing? Troublesome? Trust me, I can bend them all into fine steel.”

“Well-behaved, is what I would say. He creates nary a noise. Besides him having served under that Khal, he seems like an amiable sort.”

The howls of the prisoners became softer echoes as the Gaoler led him on. Terzac didn’t miss how most of the cells were void of any combatants. _This Black Dog is a prize for them._ He realized that he wasn’t being led on when Nyazak came back with the offer. _Fifteen pieces of golden harpies for a single man. I should be mad for accepting it._ But the coin passed from honored Master to Overseer of the Abyss all the same.

Terzac heard footsteps. Behind a corner strode Bloodbeard. His face was stretched into a scowl, his flaming beard curled around his lips. “That one should be dead.”

“You speak of the Black Dog?”

“None other,” the man rasped. “The Abyss was supposed to be a death sentence. Now I hear you will buy him to be one of your bloodsworne.”

“That depends on the Alashant of my house. But if he has the strength, he will be given the mark.” Bloodbeard scowled, his brown eyes taking on a dark shade. It was then that Terzac saw the bandages that were wrapped on one side of his face. The mercenary strolled past him, not even stopping to look behind as he brushed against Terzac’s shoulder.

Small pillars of light slipped into the cracked ceiling above the cell. The Dog’s chains were generous, the sheer length of them curled on the floor. Closer now Terzac could see that the man’s hair was not just brown or dark, like a son of the Rhoyne. His hair was _black_ , dark like a starless sky. And his scars were even more considerable. He saw a pale line spiral down the man’s neck, and grooves were carved into his legs.

And his _hand._ Pink ridges rose in waves across his arm, and Terzac could see the pits where some fang tore at him. A massive beast must have had its way with him – and this Black Dog survived such a ravaging? _Perhaps fifteen harpies was too small a price._ He had seen stronger men die from worse. The Black Dog was not a hulking beast. His muscles were thin and lithe. Terzac would need to work on his looks. A fearsome looking man earned more devotion and favors in the pits.

“Does he speak?”

The Gaoler shrugged. “This one barely acknowledges words. He responds to tone and touch, nothing more. He probably doesn’t speak Valyrian.”

Terzac approached the cell. “Then he shall learn the words. I will burn them into him if I must.”

It was then that the man looked up into Terzac. “The words are known to me.”

“Gods below,” the Gaoler cursed. “Weeks he says not a word. Five minutes with you and he speaks.”

“Leave us,” Terzac commanded. “This one is mine now. I will have words.” The Gaoler moved to speak but Terzac raised a hand. “He will be brought into my home. If I am in danger now, what makes you think I will be safer tomorrow?” The Gaoler hesitated for a moment, and then spat on the ground. He left Terzac behind.

“Who are you?” The Black Dog had gray eyes. Terzac had never seen the like of it before.

“Terzac vo Hrasher, master of my house. My great grandfather trained men to be titans of the Blood Pits, and all of his sons followed in noble undertaking. And my son will as well, gods give him the strength to do so. Do you have a name?”

The man hesitated. “Jon.”

Terzac chewed on that. “Jon,” he said. It was too short, too rough and worn to be a name from the continent. “You came from across the sea. I see it now. You have the look of an Andal. How did you come to Astapor?”

At first, Jon did not speak. “To seek a better life. I found it.”

“Among the Dothraki, serving a khal?” It made no matter why this man was in Astapor; his life belonged to the house of Hrasher now. But then he remembered the mercenary. “How did you earn Bloodbeard’s fury?”

At that, Jon’s eyes did become like a storm. “I wounded him.” There was a thin smile on his face. “I took his ear.”

“And he wants you to pay for it. Wanted to see you die. He must hate me something terrible. Have I made an enemy by buying you?”

“So I am a slave.”

“You could be Bloodsworne, if you have the strength for it. You can fight in the arenas and bring honor and glory to my house. And if you are great enough, secure freedom.”

“I can be free.” Jon rose up. “To do as I wish?”

“None would stop you. You will hold the brand of my house to the end of your days, but a freed man is a freed man. So long as you hold the wooden sword proclaiming as such, no slaver can touch you. Perhaps you will run back to Westeros?”

“No,” Jon said firmly. “My place is here. Will Bloodbeard linger in the city?”

“Perhaps,” Terzac shrugged. “Perhaps not. Why does it matter?”

“Because, I will earn my freedom. And when I do, I am going to kill him.”

**THE PIG OF HORN HILL**

With the death of the Lord Commander, nothing was certain. The tower was a smoldering ruin, the black smoke rose from the shattered bricks and crumbled beams. It took three days of digging through the wreck to find the Lord Commander. From what Pyp told him, the stones were still hot on the first night. When they found Jeor Mormont, they also found the dagger that was buried in his belly. That same day they had found Othor, with one of his arms butchered off, and what remained of him was a flame kissed ruin.

Othor was dead. They found him dead. Samwell remembered what he told the Lord Commander. “My Lord, he was dragged here. Look at the blood. It would be flowing like water if he was recently killed. But his blood is thick and cajoled.” Samwell could hardly get the words out of his mouth, he was so frightened by the corpses, but the Lord Commander smiled and said that he was fat but not stupid.

It wasn’t just the Lord Commander. Ser Jaremy Rykker was killed when the dead Jafer Flowers pierced his heart with a knife. Five others met the same fate before Jafer could be cut to pieces, including Maester Aemon’s steward Clydas. “I suppose if there is one way we are fortunate, it is that you were already tending to me Samwell.” Maester Aemon had meant for the words to be comforting, but Sam just felt uneasy.

With the Lord Commander dead, the Night’s Watch was in an uproar over what should be done. Ser Alliser Thorne insisted that a new Lord Commander should be elected, and Sam was fearful that the Night’s Watch would choose him. Alliser Thorne always called him piggy as he sent trainees to beat him with blunted blades. Others suggested that a raging needed to happen, to discover the truth behind the rising dead and this supposed invasion by the King-beyond-the-Wall. A few said that letters needed to be sent to the king to send aid to the Wall.

“Which King?” asked Bowen Marsh.

“Any of them,” answered Alan of Rosby over his spiced wine. “We got five kings now. One of them has to listen.”

Sam kept as far out of the discussions as he could. He was a fat steward – why would any of them want to listen to him? Even more, he had no idea what he could say. He knew less about who the right man to lead them would be, and even less about what to do about…whatever Othor had turned into. He was dead, and he still managed to kill the Lord Commander. Or maybe the Lord Commander managed to kill him.

If there was one thing Sam knew, it was books. He had loved reading, always had, for as long as he could remember. Most of the others didn’t know how each word could be a hole that you could just fall into. “Sam, if you stay in the library for too long, you are going to start to smell like those books.” He couldn’t blame Grenn – the library of Castle Black _did_ smell. It reeked of dust and wet paper, and of years uncounting. If the Northern historians were true, then the Wall was tens of thousands of years old. The only maesters that supported that came from the North; all others agreed that was an exaggerated number. But just how old was Castle Black? Not as old as the Wall, surely, but it couldn’t have been much younger.

However old Castle Black was, the library looked the part. It was dim, lit with just small flickers of candles that waxed across the creaking floors. The wooden shelves groaned as Sam stepped past. When Sam would look up, he would just barely see the top of them. He dared not bring a torch or taper in here. The papers were old and brittle, and Sam didn’t want to burn them.

More than anything else, Sam didn’t want the books to burn.

Cracked scrolls were piled high on top of each other. Books with spines so worn that Sam couldn’t read the letters were towering over the shelves. He saw maps tied together into baskets, letters, shipment orders, inquiries to the capitol, messages from Winterfall. The entire history of the world was in Castle Black, if one knew where to look.

At first, Sam didn’t have the faintest idea of what he was going to do. The library at Hornhill was pitiful, holding maybe a hundred books at best. It was half a wonder that Father allowed that many. Castle Black’s library was a giant in comparison. He could spend half his life here and maybe he could read through all the tomes and manuscripts. Maybe. If he was lucky.

But he had to try. He couldn’t fight or scout, he wouldn’t last a day outside of the Wall. Sam was a craven, he knew, Father always said so. But Sam could read, which went further than one would think in the Night’s Watch. Books had so much to teach, and Sam had so much to learn. Othor could not have been the first one to…come back. The word sounded queer in his head. _Corpses are supposed to stay still. The dead should not kill._ But if there was going to be an answer, it would be somewhere in the library.

He tried to start with the histories, but some of the older books were so brittle with age that even touching them broke the spine. That was a pity – Sam would have loved to know what they could have said. Even if they didn’t have an answer, there was so much you could learn from them. Knowing how many supplies were bought in a season would tell how many men were sworn to the black. The number of letters from King’s Landing in a year could say how much respect the king had for the Night’s Watch…or how much he didn’t care.

Many of the letters and scrolls were littered with holes, and the shelves layered with mouse dung. “You shouldn’t eat the books,” Sam scolded to a scurrying mouse. After the first day, he resolved to bring a slice of cheese from the kitchens.

Some days Sam thought that there was no point to what he was doing. Plenty of the old books he found fell apart as he turned the page. Some of the scrolls so ancient that the ink had faded from them. And even then, books only came with the Andals. Before them were the First Men, and they didn’t have pens, or a reliable alphabet. They had runes that were carved into stone, but that didn’t count for much. The letters varied the older they were, and some couldn’t be translated at all. They told all their stories to their sons, and their sons passed those down to their sons. It was the maesters that finally put those words down to paper, and how honest and true were those?

But even muddled, even weathered by time, there had to be some truth here. Sam loved books. He loved reading, he loved learning. Maester Aemon was the same way. There had to be some value in them.

A few times Grenn or Pyp would come down to fetch him. There were no windows in the library, no way for Sam to know how much time has passed. Maester Aemon never scolded Sam for spending so much time in the library. He knew how easy it was to lose yourself in the books, with every word being a hole into another world.

Day after day Sam would return. He could see where he had left off – he often created a pile of books or scrolls. Some of the shelves were noticeably less cramped by his progress, but so much of the library was still filled to the brink. _I could spend a lifetime here_. He supposed he would. He was a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch after all. He was never going to leave the Wall.

Sam never thought that he would make it. Ser Alliser was ruthless in his trainings. He would always send recruits after him with the blunted blades, to give him ugly bruises purple and yellow. Rast was the worst of them all. He always said “Ser Piggy, Ser Piggy” as he slapped at Sam’s side. The man was a raper and Sam wasn’t supposed to think on what his brothers were before they came, but Rast was evil and cruel, he knew it.

“You need to stick up for yourself,” Halder would say. He was an apprentice to a stonemason before he came to the Wall, so Sam couldn’t begrudge for being so rough whenever he’d bandage him. But Father had tried much worse to make a man out of him, and none of it ever worked. After Donal Noye argued with Ser Alliser about something, none of the other brothers came to Sam with blunted blades.

Then somehow Maester Aemon got wind that Sam knew how to read. He remembered saying so to Pyp, but why would Pyp end up talking to the Maester? But it was from Pyp that the Maester learned, Sam knew. How else could he have known? He was named to the stewards, was made caretaker to the Maester, and that was that. Maybe it was Grenn – but he was all heart, without the wits and thought to think like that. Now that Sam thought on it, maybe it _was_ Pyp. He was a mummer before he came to the Wall. Ser Alliser said that he was a mummer’s monkey, but Pyp’s big ears were deceiving. He was smarter than how he looked. 

Sam rummaged through what books he could. He supposed if it weren’t for what happened to the Lord Commander, he could have spent his whole life going through this library. Instead he was trying to cram what time he could in just a few weeks. _Has it been a few weeks?_ Time seemed to merge together in the library. Every book was a secret gate to a new world, and in each of these worlds time was meaningless. How many times had Pyp or Grenn come down to drag him to bed? Too often he came to Maester Aemon heavy-eyed.

All he could do was read, and Sam had to do all that he could.

“Denys Mallister is coming from the Shadow Tower,” Sam heard one man say in the Shieldhall. “We’re not going anywhere. We are going to have a choosing.”

_We are going to have a new Lord Commander._ The snarls of “Piggy, piggy” slithered in his head. _Whoever the new Lord Commander is, he needs to know what we are fighting._ And if Sam had to be honest, he had to know as well. The idea of the dead coming back made him shiver against the candlelight, but not even knowing the why of it was scarier by far.

No matter how hard he looked, the most recent letters or scrolls had nothing on the dead coming back to life. There were some writings from the Citadel of expelling a master due to “foul dealings in corpses”, but Sam never could find anything more than that. _Whatever this is, I don’t think a maester had a hand in it._ Something in Sam’s bones said this was something more mysterious. Older.

As much as Sam didn’t want to risk it, he went for the more brittle of the books and scrolls. They were like to rip at the touch, but Sam knew he had to go further back. It was a risk, and whenever a tear happened at the slightest touch his heart sank, but he had to chance it. 

_The Old Bindings of the Runes of the First Men_ by Maester Alogro, _The Ancient Ways of the First Peoples_ by Maester Talscont, _Of the Nature of the Stories of the Children of the Forest_ by Septon Malador, _The Edge of the World_ by Maester Balder, who had served at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Sam poured through dozens of such books, and he read them so quickly that the men who wrote them all seemed to blend together. _And not one of them say anything about the dead that walk._

Sometimes Sam would think that perhaps it was an unusual phenomenon. Maybe this was a once in a lifetime event. For all the books and scrolls that he poured through, all the books that ripped at his touch, none said anything about dead men murdering the living. Maybe it was something to do with the Wall itself. Some of the books based on the folklore of the North suggested that a dragon was buried in the wall of ice. _If something could bring the dead back to life, it would be the bones of a dragon._

But then he found one book, called _The Watcher on the Wall_ by Maester Harmune. It was a wide history of the Night’s Watch that only stretched to 143 AC…or at least that’s what Sam thought. He couldn’t find one mention of the Dance of the Dragons, the Targaryen civil war that followed the death of the first Viserys. It could have been written before that time, but it made no mention of Viserys the First or his grandfather, the first Jaehaerys. _How old are you?_

No matter how old the book was, Maester Harmune’s account did mention a Night’s King and his Corpse Queen. It wasn’t much – it told of how her skin was cold as ice, and when he gave her his seed he also gave his soul – but it was something. A woman that was dead and ruled.

But then he found a tome called _True Histories_. Sam could not find a single name – Maester Hulmer, Tarynic, Darysl and Joffrey all worked on it at one point or another. What he did find was a massive revision of the history of the Wall. These maesters insisted that the Battle for the Dawn, and by consequence the building of the Wall, occurred eight thousand years back, not six. “The Others were said to be creatures of ice with weapons of glass, and they commanded hordes of wights.”

That was it. Sam was certain. After weeks of reading and searching, he had found _something._ It didn’t explain how Othor came back, or the why of it. But if something called the Others were behind it, then at least they had a name. They knew who the enemy was. _But if the Others are as old as this book says, then why now? Why wait six thousand years?_

Going from there, Sam tried to find out what he could. But if the Others truly did exist, then they were shadows. All that was known of these Others were passed down tales and songs sung by Northern bards. If the Others were real, then they were extinguished from the world long before any maesters emerged from Oldtown. They rode on giant spiders, they rose the dead, they brought winter and cold and death. They were defeated by the Last Hero who traveled into the forests of the Children with his twelve companions and a faithful hound, all whom had perished before the end. It all sounded like a story for children.

Even the name sounded wrong. _Others_. Who would call themselves something like that? Some tales considered them the White Walkers, but those came from newer sources. What was right and what was wrong? Sam was reading in a fog, and the fog was always shifting and moving.

_What am I supposed to give them? Stories thousands of years old?_ He sounded like a fool. “Perhaps I am one,” he said to the darkness. But the dead weren’t supposed to come back and kill the living. They were supposed to be buried deep into the earth, laid with salt, departed with kind words and never to bother anyone again. But Othor did rise up and kill the Lord Commander, so why would the idea of ice monsters seem so unreasonable?

_I must be going mad._ He was trying to make sense out of ice monsters and spiders as large as horses. Perhaps he should go and have a debate with some grumpkins?

Steps echoed off the walls. “Sam? Sam!” The gruffness of Grenn’s voice could never be mistaken. And he moved as he always did: loud and without care. Sam heard the shaking of a few books nested on their shabby shelves. “Dammit Sam, where are you!”

“I’m right here,” he croaked. He felt a yawn shivering through his throat. _How long have I been down here?_ He felt the numbness in his elbows transform into a dull ache as he rose up. “Grenn, I’m right here!” The yawn came then, splitting and shuddering at his lips.

He stepped out from the dim light with a taper in his hands. There was a small bit of cloth wrapped around it to keep the hot wax off his burly fingers. “Stranger take me. Sam, you’re going to go blind if you keep doing this.”

“I’m sorry Grenn. It’s just…” He can’t start talking about the Others. They’ll think him daft for sure. “I just need to find out what happened.”

Sam saw a sympathetic look in his face. “You’re not sorry,” he smiled. “Even if you did go blind I’d still find you down here. So, did you?”

“Did I what?”

Grenn slapped him across the shoulder. “Find anything!”

“No.” It wasn’t too far from the truth. The Others, ice spiders, tales of a last hero…it was all madness. “I didn’t find anything at all. So many books and nothing that explains what happened to Othor and Jafer Flowers.”

“Well, we need you above. Come on.”

“Need me?” He followed with uneasy steps. “Did something happen to Maester Aemon?”

“Seven help us, no. We’re going to have the choosing.”

“It’s happening?” The words almost came up all twisted in his mouth. “Today?”

“How long have you been down here?” Green looked at him like he grew a second head.

The sun was receding behind the iron-grey clouds as they stepped out from the vault. Sam was thankful he would not have to contend with a blinding glare. The courtyard was sparse. “There are men on the Wall,” Grenn said. “Aemon had some of the stewards get their votes. The rest of us have to throw ours into the kettle.”

They entered the Shieldhall. Red shields, white shields, badgers, hawks, foxes, bears, tridents, crossed axes and crossed swords, iron fists and open palms, crests of petals and walls of fire. There was more color in this gallery of heraldic figures than in any rainbow or summer morning that Sam had ever seen. A thousand shields were lined across the long hall. In the old days, long before the coming of the dragons, when the Night’s Watch was a revered oath instead of the last refuge for honored old men and criminals, knights would hang up the shields of their fathers and take up the black. But it was rare for a new shield to be added to the hall today. Still, it was a blinding sight. And a humbling one, if Sam had to be honest. _How many of these families have gone to dust? They still live here, in this feast hall at the end of the world._

There was a rumbling in the hall. Hundreds of men in dark cloaks were crowded into the hall. It was a large and imposing place, but it was so packed it looked like a tiny thing. There were men with crossed arms leaning against the wall. Sam could not even find a seat. The clammering of men were so high Grenn had to speak in Sam’s ear.

“Who are the contenders?”

“Gods Sam,” Grenn breathed. “You have been cooped up forever.” He pointed to a man with eyebrows so gray and thick they looked like withered caterpillars. “That’s Denys Mallister of the Shadow Tower. I hear he’s been trying to be Lord Commander six times now.”

“Two times,” Sam said.

Grenn frowned. “Barlem told me six. Right bastard can’t count for shit. Anyway, then there’s Ser Throne himself, but none are surprised by that.” Sam least of all. “Ah, and there was Cotter Pyke, but he took his vote out. Lost last night’s count.”

“You didn’t tell me we had a choosing?”

“You were stuck in those books of yours, and I was cold and tired. It was raining freezing rains Sam. I wasn’t going out in that weather if I could help it. So Pyke is gone. That just leaves Donal Noye.”

“Donal?” Sam couldn’t keep the shock from his voice. “The blacksmith?”

“That’s the one. Someone put his name down yesterday. I never thought that one would get pale, but you should have seen the look on his face.” Grenn clapped Sam on the shoulder. “It was one of Edd’s better ideas.”

“Why would Tollett do that?” Then he looked on Ser Alliser Thorne’s scowling face, and he realized why. The more men in the race, the less votes Thorne would get. And the longer that was kept up, the higher the chance that one of the contenders would drop out. Donal may win, he may not. But anything to make sure Ser Alliser Thorne didn’t become Lord Commander Thorne was worth a shot. “Is he still in?”

“Hasn’t taken his name out, so it sure sounds like it. With Pyke out he is right behind the Ser. Crone be good, maybe he’ll win today.”

A big man from Eastwatch slammed his tankard against the table, but the rumbling continued. Pyp put two fingers into his mouth, and let out a whistle so loud and sharp that only a mummer could produce. The clamor was cut through like a sword. The hush washed over the brothers in the hall, until all that could be heard was the uneasy silence.

“Let the men speak!” someone shouted. “Speak!” roared the crowd. “Speak! Speak! SPEAK!”

The commander of the Shadow Tower was the first to rise. “You all heard my words yesterday.” The man’s voice was sharp, but weathered. “I served faithfully at the Shadowtower through two Lord Commanders. I have weathered raids and harsh winters. Among my men are Qhorin Halfhand, one of the most respected rangers of the Watch. He had never doubted my leadership, and I promise you wouldn’t either.” Then he sat down.

“What do you think of him?” Sam asked.

Grenn shrugged. “He’d be better than Thorne. But this is his third election. Why do you think he wasn’t chosen the first two times?” Sam mulled it over, and he couldn’t come up with a proper answer.

Then Ser Alliser rose. “You know me. No need to say my name again. I’m a hard man. You all know it. But there is no doubt that I am a capable man. That’s what the Lord Commander needs to be. I was an anointed knight, and I’ve always made recruits into hard and capable men of the Watch. What I did for you, I can do for the entire order.”

There was a small grumbling as the black brothers thought on his words. None could say he was false…but Alliser Thorne was cruel. Sam wondered if Thorne would have had killed him if he had his way. Often times, Sam thought that he would. But many of the men from Castle Black were trained by Thorne. They knew him, and although they wouldn’t say they admired him…Sam wondered if they trusted him to lead.

“How many rounds of votes has Thorne survived?”

“All of them.” Grenn flexed his balled fist. “He came in first a few times, but he never got majority. Thank the gods.”

And then rose Donal Noye. “I suppose I need to have a say. Since someone put my name in a running as a big joke, and you are all in on it.” A small rumble of chuckles rose up. “Truth be told, I thought I would be older and grayer when this day would come. The Old Bear earned his name, but he was hard and strong. But then again, it did take a tower to fall on his head to take down the Lord Commander.” There was a small echo of fists and kegs pounding against the tables. “I am not noble born. I was not given velvets to wear, nor did I wear any cloaks cut from fox fur. But I was the smith for Robert Baratheon. I forged the hammer that killed Rhaegar Targaryen, and I am proud of that. And when I lost my arm at Pyke, I came here. Because I still wanted to serve the realm. Still do. I thought I could do that by being the best gods-damned blacksmith at the end of the world. And I don’t think one man will say that I’m not!” A few men shouted admirations and others stomped their feet in approval. “I’ve advised the Lord Commander plenty of times. All of you have heard me give you a stern lecture or two. And some got a slap to the ar. Well deserved all, I say! If you want me to lead you, then I’ll do it. I won’t be soft. I will be just as hard to you as I would be to my forge. I know how to bend metal, how to make it and break it. I think I know a thing or two about people. That’s all.”

Almost as soon as Donal Noye sat down, there were cries for the kettle. “Kettle!” someone pounded. The cries went up higher and higher. “Kettle! Kettle! KETTLE!” It was a dark and dented thing, with two massive dark handles on the side. Some brothers scurried into the corner and half lifted, half dragged it, right to the center of the room.

Everyone had their arrowheads, tokens and pieces of painted stones. They surrounded the kettle and threw in their votes. Once it was known that everyone had put in their say, the votes were counted.

And then, there was a great cheer as Donal Noye was nearly lifted from his seat. The blacksmith was surrounded as men shook his hand and clapped him on the shoulder. The man was wide eyed and grasping for words.

Grenn grabbed Sam and smiled as he said something, but it was all lost in the rush of words and cheers. Sam could see that Ser Denys Mallister shook Donal’s one hand as he said something.

“Lord Commander Donal!” The hall cheered. “Lord Commander! Lord Commander! Donal Noye! Donal Noye!”

**THE FALLEN GRIFFIN**

They had remained in Volantis for too long. The moment they earned passage into the city with a mummer’s face, the work began. Negotiating for the ships, renting of slaves to lift the barrels and crates, piles of paperwork and chests full of coins and treasures to pay for them all, and headaches that threatened to crack Jon’s head in two. The elephants were the most difficult part of it. Thirty elephants, all bred and trained for war, the single most devastating part of the Golden Company, and the most perilous cargo on the seas. Ten ships alone would be dedicated to ferrying them halfway across Essos.

Connington could keep his aggravations to himself. For years and years he had kept his temperaments inside, kept his anger from spilling over, sealed his demons in his heart. The Stark girl had no such restraint. Near on everyday, in the camp of the Company, in the manse that they had rented, on the streets of the city, she howled and gritted about how long the process was taking. “We’ve been here for a month and still we are here!”

Some days he wanted to slap. Slap her for her lack of patience, for her disrespect, for the insults she would throw their way. Some days he wanted to sit by her side and tell her he knew what it felt like to be helpless, to not know what the next day would bring, to doubt every decision that brought you to this point.

But instead he remained silent, clenched his fist behind his back, and let the Stark girl howl. The direwolf was never far from her, near always a few steps behind her own. She was named after Nymeria, the Rhoynish princess, and Jon had to admit he was surprised by that. _Wouldn’t the Northmen have had their share of warrior women for the girl to draw from?_ But the less he had to speak with Arya Stark, the better.

Her temperament was as far from his as Jon could imagine, but her face was all Lord Stark of Winterfell. Robert Baratheon was the face of the Rebellion, but Eddard Stark was the will and quiet determination. If either were to fall in battle, the Rebellion would have crumbled around them. _Rhaegar would have been king, and Aegon would be prince, and none of us would be sitting in Volantis._

Every day he would question Harry Strickland on their progress, and every day the man would give him a scowled look over the piles of scrolls he was managing. “It is being worked on, Jon Connington. Do you happen to know the trade conversion of Yi’Tish _zaitu_ to Volantene honors?”

“No,” Jon had replied.

“Then leave me to my work, so I can leave you to yours. And keep the door open on your way out. It’s hotter than the seven hells in here.” Jon had turned from Harry then, eager to follow the Paymaster’s commands. The man always was in a sour mood when overwhelmed by his work – he was that way from the moment Jon met the man, and Harry had never givern reason to suggest he had conquered that vice. But just as Jon was halfway through the door Harry called out, “Wait”.

Jon turned. Harry laid down his quill, the point which had a faint shade of ink, and laid his head against his fist. “You’ve already disturbed my work. Might as well do the same to yours.”

“What is it, Harry?” Jon could not hide the irritation in his voice.

“Why the Targaryen girl?”

Jon looked at him. “What?”

“Why her! Lysono Maar looks just as much a dragonlord as the Prince, and he doesn’t have a hint of the bloodline. We could nab any prosperous girl from Lys and claim she is the boy’s aunt. Who would be the wiser?”

“Have you lost your wits?”

Strickland snorted. “I was at my wit’s end an hour past. Perhaps it’s all gone now. You tell me Jon. Why _can’t_ we get a Lyseni girl to play the part? We are gathering the entirety of the Company to cross the seas for Astapor, and we don’t even know if Daenerys is there!”

“Aegon needs his aunt.” _I failed the prince. I cannot fail the princess. I will not corrupt the son._ “For all your talks of money and resources, you are misusing the best one you have. That fucking head of yours. _Think_ , Harry. Would Viserys not teach his sister a single thing? Are you proposing that Daenerys has nothing to her but her name and a pretty face? She _knows_ things, Harry, things that would only be passed down the royal bloodline.

“And when the Lords ask our imposter, ‘Is this the daughter of Aerys the Mad?’ and she is proven as a farce, what then will they say of Aegon? What if she comes for us, her and this bastard Snow?”

“She is one girl, Jon.”

Jon had to grit his teeth to keep from hitting the man. “She is a Targaryen! How content do you think she will be, when she finds out that her nephew took her throne?”

“It’s not hers,” Harry said weakly. “It’s Aegon’s.”

_If Robert didn’t steal the throne, if King Aerys hadn’t taken the lives of Rickard and Brandon Stark, if Rhaegar wasn’t murdered on the Trident. If the world was a more just one._ “Aye, but she will ask the same question the whole of Westeros will ask. How does she know that is the son of Rhaegar?” Harry was silent, thank the gods. “That is why we need her. That is why we are sailing east.”

“But why the whole of the Company? Send a ship, maybe two. While a thousand secures the Princess, the rest could be fulfilling contracts.”

“Harry,” Jon said, “we are done with contracts. After Astapor, we are going home. We’ll gather some sellswords and adventurers along the way, but we are going home. Westeros is calling.”

The Company was split between the encampments that surrounded the city and residing within the manse. Jon didn’t like that one at all, but Myles had the right of it. “We can’t _all_ be in the city, Jon,” Myles had grumbled over a snack of Lyseni cheese. “Every man has his wealth that he wears, but where would we keep the elephants and horses? Once we leave Essos for Westeros, then we can start throwing money left and right. The gods know we could use a few thousand more mercenary companies to bolster ourselves, now that the Khal decided to fuck us over.”

“And what if something should happen?”

The Captain-Commander had huffed at that. “What something? Jon, we just pledged Daenerys to the son of Kalavar Artaga. That family has owned a third of the Volantene ships for near on a hundred years! We are fattening his coffers, and making his grandchildren loyalty.”

“A lie,” Jon had gritted, “to just get us those bloody ships.”

“Then, Jon,” Myles said in a low growl, “I suggest we speak less of that part. They can’t find out if no one talks.”

_Someone always talks._ Myles was no fool, but he was not the one that watched over the boy for twelve long years. He remembered the day when the Spider’s man brought Aegon to him. “This boy has come a long way from Pentos,” the Myrman had slithered. Jon could still picture how green the man’s beard was. As green as a blade of grass.

The man had edged Aegon on, with a few reassuring taps on the shoulder. “Are you Jon Connington?” He could still remember how wide the boy’s eyes were, a purple so deep that they were almost blue. “They say that you knew my father. King Rhaegar.”

He had almost wanted to correct the boy, and remind him that his father was just a prince, but that he would have been the greatest king since the first Jaehaerys. If he had only lived. “Aye,” and Jon had cursed himself in the moment for allowing his voice to crack, “I knew him. I called your father my friend, and he did the same in return. I will be looking over you now.”

“The Magister Illyrio…I have been with him for as long as I was born.”

“But it is no longer safe, Aegon. You are the true heir to the Iron Throne, and if Robert Baratheon would learn of your existence…do you know what would happen?” The boy had nodded numbly at that. He didn’t have the dragon’s fire, the pride of a Targaryen, not then. But that all would come with years. There were nights when Jon was thankful for that, and days when Jon wished he was more like his father. “It will be a long road, Aegon. But I will keep you safe. I promise.”

And it had been a long road, a twisting path that he had followed for more than a decade. A year ago he thought he would be standing upon the shores of Westeros by now. And indeed he would be, if only Khal Drogo had fulfilled his part and invaded. _An invasion, to cut the Seven Kingdoms apart, and to set the stage for the Golden Company._ Daenerys would have been made a widow when they arrived, as they cut through the horselords. Aegon would have taken her as wife, and the realm would have made them both King and Queen. The son of Rhaegar come again, to deliver Westeros from oblivion.

That conspiracy went to ashes when Drogo marched east, and when Daenerys took on Jon Snow as a lover. Daenerys had every reason to reject the Dothraki, every reason to choose the bastard, every reason to not follow through, and yet Jon wished she had played her part all the same. _I would have delivered Daenerys to the fires if it meant placing Aegon on the throne. Rhaegar, do you know the depths I would go for your son?_ The boy, who had so little of his father in him, save for his eyes. And even then, Rhaeger’s lilac eyes were such a deeper shade than the boy’s.

But, that was fate and destiny. Aegon would succeed where his father had failed. Where Jon himself had failed. In the long nights, the midnight bells would chime in his head, and with the echoes came the chorus of his failures. _I have heard the chimes at midnight, and they rang of blood and death and exile._

Near on a month they remained within Volantis, and the Archons of the city grew wealthier by the minute. In frustration Jon would often wonder why they had kept the legions of the Company outside the city gates. They certainly profited from the venture well enough. _Kalavr’s son will grow fat while his father whispers of his future as Westerosi royalty._ But once the fires cooled, Jon would remind himself why the Volantenes made the Company swelter under the hot summer sun outside their gates. _To make us desperate, to make us give away as much of our gold and dignity as they could wrangle from us._

For almost two months the Golden Company had lingered outside Volantis. The unspoken truth hung in the air. _Daenerys could be dead. She probably already is._ The aunt of the prince was the best hope for Westeros to accept him. With her affirmations, there would be no doubt. Aegon was the son of Ragnar, and he had come back to take the throne promised to his father.

But with the aunt of the prince likely dead, or at best being slowly tortured by her Dothraki husband, there was the question of why sail for Astapor. He had raised the question to Myles Toyne just a week after the deal was struck with the Volantenes. “We can’t just accept that the girl is dead, Jon.” The Captain-Commander was feasting on his most favorite of treats – red, vibrant cherries that were soaked in sweet juices. He would suck on them before pulling them off from the stem. “If there is a shadow of a hope that she lives, we have to find her. We have to rescue her. The boy needs to marry his aunt.”

“A fool’s hope. She is likely dead, killed by a wrathful Dothraki husband. We could sail west instead of east. Instead of following in Drogo’s footsteps, we could be hitting the shores of Westeros. The realm is split by war. It’s not a united front. Ten thousand today could accomplish so much.”

Myles Toyne shook his head. “No, Jon. That is too much a risk. Getting Daenerys is simply the beginning. We get Daenerys today. And then tomorrow we get as many swords as we can muster. Try to use the luster of the Targaryen restoration to gather as many under our banner as we can afford. We won’t be ten thousand when we reach Westeros.”

Jon couldn’t fault Myles’ plan. He was the one that thought of it, alongside Lysono Maar in the dark nights as they huddled around candles. Jon knew the history of the Blackfyre Rebellions, of how each and every time the Golden Company sailed on Westeros they were crushed. They needed men, they needed swords and horses and crossbows and ships. Without the Golden Horde they had to find other avenues to swell their ranks.

Fill the hearts of Essos with dreams of the Band of the Nine come again. Let their heads swell with the idea of aiding with the return of the dragons. “Where were you, father, when the Targaryens took back the throne?” their children would ask, and as old men they would reply, “I helped put them there”.

But many moons would pass before they could do all that. It would be an uphill battle to inspire such confidence if they did not have Daenerys wedded at Aegon’s side. Too many questions would be raised, too many accusations before they even embarked for Westeros. And if they should arrive without Daenerys…

No, the truth of the matter was, they needed Daenerys. Jon would not give up on Aegon, even if Daenerys was murdered by the Khal. He would be the Prince’s champion to his dying breath. _But it would be all the harder for it._ If only Drogo had taken the bait for Westeros, if only he had taken the Golden Horde west.

If only Jon had found Robert Baratheon in the Stoney Septs. If only Rhaegar lived. If only he was king. If only Jon was a better man.

After a month the ships were secured, the cargo was locked in the hold, the elephants led onto the larger ships, and they were finally away from Volantis. They were sailing into the east, towards Astapor, towards Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow and Astapor.

Half a moon before, Myles Toyne had chosen six small cogs to leave port for Astapor. Jon Connington could remember only the name of the _Seaward Spear_ , but they all seemed adaptable enough vessels. Arya Stark had wanted to be a part of it. “The Stark girl was insistent,” Myles Toyne had said over a dinner of smoked lamb and beer.

Jon had wished Myles had sent her along. That wolf of hers had eyes only for him it seemed, and Jon liked none of it. “Why did you refuse her?”

Myles Toyne sucked on his lips. “To be honest? I am not sure. I was telling myself that it was far too risky. Storms and pirates. Mutiny even.”

Jon had to laugh at that. “Mutinies? You are worried about mutinies? We haven’t even left port yet.”

“I have to.” Myles shook his head. “Every action needs to be accounted for, Jon. That Stark girl…she could be our biggest asset. Or our worst. She could turn Jon Snow and Daenerys to our side…”

“Or against us from the start. She doesn’t trust us, Myles.”

Myles pointed a fork at Jon. “And you don’t trust her, Jon. Every time you glance at her, there is half of a scowl on your face. Don’t you deny it or brush it off, I know damn well the reason why.”

“And what reason is that?”

“You see her father. I don’t know how you know of Eddard Stark, and frankly I do not care. The Starks and the Targaryens were enemies before, but that all changed. Daenerys has a child by Jon Snow, Arya Stark is sailing with us. We are in this together, Connington, and godsdamnit you need to see that before this is through.” The Captain-Commander of the Company leaned back in his seat and sighed. “I need to see that. The girl has to trust us, know us for true.”

“And what do you want me to do about it?”

“Stop with your scowls. That’s a good start.”

His thoughts were a whirlwind, but somehow he found the seas would calm him. He simply needed to breath in the sea salt, and he would find that, for a moment, everything was still. The first time he was on the sea was his greatest shame. “I entrusted the realm to you, Jon Connington,” the king had said from atop his Iron Throne, “and you shall leave with nothing. Go,” he pointed, “away from my kingdom. I have no need for weak men, and weak men need no income, they need no keeps, they need no name or honor. Go!” He was forced to sail from King’s Landing, and standing upon that ship he felt his entire body suffer under the weight of his failure. He had failed his silver prince. He had failed Rhaegar.

But in the years that passed, as he and Aegon’s son sailed from port to port, traversed the rivers and the coastlines, Jon had found peace in the waters. Listening to the waves would let him focus. _A day will come when Aegon sits upon the Iron Throne, he will be the Sixth of His Name. It will come, no matter what comes next._

Looking out then, across the blue waters that would give way to the Smoke Sea, Jon could see the sails of the fleet. They were like a rainbow, painted black and green and red and purple, the colors of the sails just as bold and proud as the Volantenes that built them. In time they would be black and yellow, the colors of the Golden Company, the banners a skull dipped in gold, all in memory of the man that swore to put a Blackfyre on the Iron Throne. Deep within the hold of the _Kaevo Yarephos_ , the flagship, was the golden crown of Aegor Rivers.

The Golden Company was made to place a Blackfyre on the Iron Throne. Now it sailed forth to recover a Targaryen and unite the red dragons towards Westeros. _Bittersteel must be filled with fury at the sight. Wherever you are, scoundrel, may you burn._

He heard familiar steps, light and cautious on the deck. Jon turned towards Haldon Halfmaester. The man was clean shaven and pale, despite the years he had spent beneath the Essosi sun. His dark hair had begun to show lines of gray. “Halfmaester.”

He sighed in irritation. “I wish you would not call me that.”

“And I wish you were a maester, but we can’t all have what we want.” Jon kept one hand on the rails to keep him busy. “What do you want, Haldon?”

If the man was a true maester that had earned his chains, he would most likely be clutching at them now. “Just to talk, Connington. You were doing it again.”

Jon narrowed his eyes. “If you have a point—“

“Whenever you are nervous and unsure, you stare out onto the sea. Which happens to be near on every day, but I digress. You like to keep things to yourself, Griff.”

“That is not my name,” he gritted.

“Not now. But it has been like that for a very long time. Years I would nearly call you Jon, and just about catch my tongue. Now I have to call you Lord Connington, and it seems weird that I don’t call you Griff. I almost miss the blue dye you would have in your hair.”

Jon pushed away a strand of hair from his face, just as much auburn as it was deep blue. “I don’t. The smell is horrendous.”

“His Majesty agrees.”

Half of a smile crept onto his face. The boy had always wailed about the stench of the dyes. From his days as a child, Aegon would always dread the day that the dye would be rubbed into his hair. “His agreements don’t concern me. His ascension onto the throne does. He is still Young Griff to you.”

Haldon crossed his arms. “And are you Lord Connington now.”

_I am lord to no one._ “I am a man of the Golden Company, and you are supposed to be a tutor to the prince.”

The halfmaester gave a snort. “The prince is not the little boy I could intimidate with a frown. He knows what he is, and he acts the part. I can only teach him when he lets me. And he’s not likely to let me right this moment.”

Jon looked at him with a frown and folded arms. “Where is Aegon now?” The man hesitated. “Haldon.”

His lips twitched. “With Arya Stark.”

With a curse under his breath, and heavy steps that would never be comfortable on the seas, Jon Connington stomped past Haldon. The man said something, but Jon was too aggravated to hear. As he swerved past the sailor, Jon had only one thought on his mind: what to do with Arya Stark. They need her, but not as much as the girl needs the Company. All the girl wants is to find her brother, but the Company wants so much from her. Get Arya to convince her brother to persuade Daenerys to support her nephew. And marry him, if the gods were good and just.

But that first step would be the hardest of them all.

He smelled the wolf before he saw them. Nymeria was curled in a ball of gray and white, and Jon could see the golden eyes linger on him. The wolf was always watching, and it unnerved him to no end. Aegon was standing just a few feet away from the wolf, his hands laid at his hips. Arya was leaning against the railings of the ship, cutting away at an apple.

“Aegon, what are you doing?”

Prince, girl and wolf all turned their heads. “His Majesty,” the Stark mocked, “thinks he can command Nymeria.”

“I never said command,” he said as he whipped his head towards her. “I said, I have the blood of the dragon in my veins. If we can ride dragons, a Targaryen can surely tell a wolf to come.”

“A dragon is not a wolf,” she countered.

Aegon frowned and crossed his arms. “I think she is right. Nymeria won’t budge an inch.”

“Nymeria,” Arya smirked with a tap at her leg. “Come.” The direwolf rose and padded to her master’s side. Her flank rubbed against Arya’s leg, and she rubbed the wolf’s ear in return. Arya ripped into her apple. Her wicked grin was all a mockery for the prince. “She’ll budge, more than just an inch. But not for you, Majesty.”

Aegon turned from her in a huff. “Jon, what is it?”

“You should be preparing.” Already Jon knew the battle was lost. “You shouldn’t be playing with…” The word dog sounded so right in his mind, but on the tip of his tongue it sounded awkward and wrong.

“A direwolf,” Aegon said in a tone so unlike his father. Haughty and proud and far too sure of himself. “The scion of House Stark, gray on a white field. When I am king I will expect the Starks to pay homage to me.” Arya frowned in disapproval behind him. “But I also am expected to know my lords. I am not playing with the direwolf. I am trying to understand her.”

“What is there to understand?” Nymeria had bared her fangs at that, but she did not move from Arya’s side. Jon felt his fingers for the pommel of his sword.

“That she is more than just a wolf,” Aegon said. “Her size is irrelevant. Have you ever seen a beast so attached to its master?”

“A hound to the man that raised him.”

Aegon shook his head at that. “Don’t be foolish, Lord Connington. You are far too wise for that.” The boy turned towards the girl. “Even you must have noticed. Those two are of one mind. It gives me an idea.”

“Of what?”

“Of the dragons,” and Jon felt a tinge of pity in the boy’s voice, and suddenly Jon could almost hear Rhaegar. “And of their riders. The dragons and the Targaryens that rode them, they had to be of more than one mind. I think they would be like one body. Maybe that’s how my house fell from such heights. The Targaryens lost their heart.”

It was so strange, to see Arya Stark without a smirk on her lips of a glimmer of defiance in her eyes. But there she laid against the rails of the ship, focused only on Aegon. Her fingers were deep in the furs of the wolf. Her thumb was stroking Nymeria’s ear, over and over in a smooth rhythm.

“But my forefathers _only_ knew of the dragons. I don’t think my father realized what wolves do. They look after their pack. The dragons command, but the pack protects. He didn’t know his people. I do not intend to make the same mistake.”

**THE WOLF IN THE PITS**

The yard rang with the song of false swords, wood banging against wood.

Alasro was a swift and thin strip of a man. His silvery-golden hair was stricken with sweat, and his pale flesh glimmered under the harsh Astapori sun. Jon had wanted to say the heat was getting to Lyseni, but he had long since learned that was not the case. Alasro had this knack for looking more tired than he wasn’t. On the sands he was a deceiver, making one think he would go left instead of right, swinging upwards instead of in an arc. After the man had whacked him on the head, Jon learned his lesson. Alasro dived under his overhead strike, but Jon twisted around his lunge. Jon slapped the man on the back with his wooden blade, and made for another lunge at the man’s head. But the practice sword was modeled after short sword the bloodsworne seemed to prefer, and Jon was not used to something so small and light. _A sword should have some weight to it._ He missed.

Alasro recovered and spun on Jon, the thin wood coming for Jon’s face. It slapped him on the cheek, the wood bashing against the bone. For half of a moment the world was blue and gray dots. But then he saw the mock sword coming for him, and Jon dove beneath it. He could almost feel the air being cut above him. Jon took two steps and lunged at Alasro. The point of the sword stabbed into the man’s legs, and he groaned in pain as he staggered backwards. Jon pressed with another strike at the shoulder, and then a slap on the wrist. Alasro dropped his blade on the ground as he clung to his hand. The skin was red and flaming.

Jon made for a final lunge, a swift strike to the head, to end it once and for all…but then there was the crack of a whip, a sound so loud it was like a thunderclap. “Enough!” roared out the Alashant, the slave that administered the training of the bloodsworne. His voice was as sharp as a headman’s axe, and his black skin was decorated in scars. The other bloodsworne paid no heed and continued in their spars. “Andal, you claimed victory.”

“I did, Alashant.”

“Why then, did you continue?”

“It is as you said.” Jon stood tall, as straining as it was. The Astapori summer was relentless. The heat was just as much an enemy as the fighters in the pits. “The two fingers, raised, are the sign of surrender. And of weakness.”

“In the arena.” There was a hot hiss to the man’s words, like a hot sword pulled from the forge. “Not here. If you can make it to the Proving, then you have your opportunity to spread blood. To steal a man’s life. Not before, Andal.”

“I wasn’t meaning to kill him.”

Alasro was rubbing at his wrist his fingers curling in pain. “All Andals spew shit from mouth. That lunge would have taken my eye!”

“It would have taken more than that.” The Alashant turned towards Alasro. “Go to the physician. You’re done for the day.”

“Alashant –“

“GO!” Alasro did not hesitate. With his head bent low he raced across the yard. Jon looked around the yard; they had all stopped in their mock contests to look at him. They all hated him. Jon could see it in their eyes, just as much because he was from Westeros, as he served under Khal Drogo, as he had survived the Abyss. The slaves all had their reasons, but they despised him.

Some of them had trained under the tutelage of the Alashant for years, some all their lives, but Jon was better than all of them. Alasro was a trickster, but he was weak once you understood his movements. Alyxqo and Qalentos were the best spears among the Bloodsworne, but were at their most vulnerable when you slipped past the points of their spears. They were also lovers and prone to anger when the honor of the other was threatened.

Out of all of them, only Yarkaz was undefeated. The man was not as tall as Hodor, but Jon to admit that he was close. His arms were as thick as tree trunks, and his body was wrapped in scars. The man was bald, and there Jon could see a deep scar that raced around his face. How the man ever survived such a wound Jon would never know.

Jon was not the only fresh slave to be bought by Terzac vo Hrasher. Iorwen was a Tyroshi with brands that raced down his arm. Saethor of Qohor fought with the spear, and Horeah favored his home of Norvos and wielded the axe. Jon could not say that they were particularly skilled, but there was talent in all of them.

Jon had faced and bested them all, once, twice, a dozen times, he could not keep count. Yarkaz was the Titan of the house, and he was the only man that Jon had never been paired with.

“A man himself is nothing!” The bloodsworne hung on the Alashant’s every word. Jon could hear the wind howl across the air. In the distance, he could see a giant of a man with a withered arm look on in silence. “We are a brotherhood. Andal, what does a bloodsworne live for?”

“To kill. To earn favor for his master.”

The Alashant cracked his whip. “The Andal knows nothing!” Jon leapt back from the whip. “Yarkaz! What does the bloodsworne live for?”

Yarkaz put a fist over his heart. “Alashant! For honor and glory in his brotherhood. To be a god in the arena!”

“That, Andal, is what it means to be bloodsworne. That is what it means to have purpose.”

_I know what my purpose is. Surviving you is one step towards that._

The Alashant unfurled his whip and ripped it through the air. The sound split at Jon’s ears. “Take positions! Andal, pair with Iorwen.”

The dark-haired son of Tyrosh was almost a challenge, but Jon had learned the man’s style in their first bout. He was as strong as an auroch, but that was all. If you gave him space to strike you would regret it. So Jon would never give him the opportunity. If Iorwen swung right Jon would go left. If he went high Jon would strike for the gut. He didn’t have the speed to catch up, but Jon was the only newblood that could hold his own against the Tyroshi. Saethor and Horeah both triumphed and were bested by him in equal measure.

Iorwen was a fierce looking man. He once boasted that he was a pleasure slave in Yunkai until he was sold into the Blood Pits of that city. Alyxqo, with Qalentos wrapped around him in an embrace, had asked why his masters saw fit to sell him. “Because I ripped off a man’s cock with my teeth,” he had smiled. He had been passed from fighting pit to pit, master to master, city to city. He refused to bow before the whip; he refused to die. Jon respected him for that, but for all his victories Iorwen had never desired to purchase his freedom. “Why buy freedom, when I can succor from wine and the breasts of women?”

_He is comfortable in his chains._ Jon was a son of the North. He would struggle every day, until he was free.

They were at each other in an instant, and almost as quick Jon was standing over him. “Yield,” Jon said as he pointed the mock sword at Iorwen’s face. He turned his head in shame and raised up his two fingers. Jon withdrew his sword and offered a hand. Iorwen slapped him away and raised himself to his feet.

“That’s enough Andal,” commanded the Alashant. “Go wash yourself. You reek of sand and filth.”

Jon made his way into the depths of the estate. Here there was a pool, carved out from the clay, where the Bloodsworne could wash themselves. Rarely would they wear anything, showcasing all of the scars that rushed over their bodies. Jon never felt so weak as here, as naked as the day his mother pushed him into the world.

He remembered the night he was pushed into a cage and ferried halfway across the city, from the ruins of the manse that was the Abyss, to the courtyard of Terzac’s estate. Near on the entirety of the Bloodsworne were bathing when Jon was prodded by the sellsword guards into the pool. “And who is this?” asked the man that Jon would come to know as Alasro.

“He is an Andal,” answered Alyxqo. “Just one look will tell you that, Lysenne.”

“I give no shits of where he came from,” said Qalentos. The man’s red hair was cropped short, and his skin was sun licked. “Because soon enough, he will go to his grave.”

“Well said,” Alyxqo had smiled. The man had the look of the Summer Islands, with dark skin and even darker hair. The braids tumbled off of his shoulder. “When the Proving comes, the only thing that this one will prove is his weakness.”

“I have a name,” he said. “It is Jon.”

“No one gives shit!” roared out Qalentos. He leaned out from the embrace of his love. “Your name won’t be etched on your grave when Yarkaz tears breath from lungs.”

“Maybe I will piss on it,” Yarkaz smiled. “To commemorate your memory.”

“I think not,” Jon had said. Yarkaz stepped up from the pool, the cool waters dripping from him. The man was a giant as he towered over Jon, but he did not waver. He looked up into the eyes of the man. “I think I will live.”

“Fool!” roared out Alasro. His hands were spread across the wall of the pool. “He is the Titan of Astapor! If he wishes your life, he just needs to reach.”

“Then perhaps he should try.”

A devil of a smile spread across Yarkaz’s face. “I await the day, Jon of the Andals.”

That day was approaching, Jon knew. They called it the Proving, the day when the newbloods would face against the branded members of their brotherhood. Many would die, and only a few would live on to fight in the arena. As Jon washed the sand and sweat off of him, he could not say he was afraid.

But he did feel fear when he felt someone grip the back of his head and plunge him into the waters. His lungs were on fire and his eyes burned and the fingers teared at his scalp and Jon could not _see._ A moment ago the pool looked as clear as crystal, but all Jon could see was the darkness. The void was supposed to be a hell of brimstone and fire, not of cool waters.

And then he saw her, for a shadow of a moment.

Jon felt the air rip into his lungs as he was pulled up. His first few breaths were the sweetest he had ever tasted. Alasro was a blur of flesh and silver hair, but Jon recognized the man. “This is the last time you thrash me. This is the last time you mock any of us.” An arm was wrapped around his neck. It was covered in brands. As the tightness gripped around him, Jon struggled for a breath.

He was brought beneath the pools. A hand weighed down his head until his nose was scratching against the bottom. There was nothing but the darkness. _A moment longer, and I am done._ What waited for him? _Let it be her. Let me see Dany one last time._

Then there was light, and Jon breathed a long, desperate breath. No hands were tightened around his throat. Jon struggled for the edge of the pool, used what remained of his strength to pull himself up. The water felt as hot as any fire as he coughed it onto the floor.

“Get out, both of you.”

“Titan, you can’t be serious. You said so himself. The man is dead. What difference does it make?”

“All of it. Out with you, Alasro. And you, if I don’t rip out your heart on the morn, consider yourself blessed. _Go_.” Jon heard the scampering of wet feet on the floor. Someone stronger and capable pulled him out of the pool. Strength was returning to his lungs, but every breath was an effort. “If I was slower, you would be a dead man Andal.”

Jon raised his head, and he saw the scars on the man’s body. “Yarkaz?”

He bent down. “You’ve kept your senses. Good. Will be all the more satisfying when I kill you in the Proving. Can you stand?” His throat still felt like it was aflame, but he nodded weakly. He pushed himself off from his elbows. “You are a damn fool Andal.”

“I am no fool.” He coughed.

“Yes you are.” Yarkaz gripped him by the chin and forced Jon to look at him. “You think because you were trained that you are better than them. I will give your master credit, he knew his way with the sword. Your body has learned how to adapt, but your mind has not. And that will get you killed.”

“I beat them in fair contest.”

“You _humiliate_ them in fair contest. You have not earned the brand, and you treat those that have like they are playthings. And you treat your fellow newbloods like they are beneath you. They will kill you, and next time I won’t help you.”

“Then I’ll kill them first.”

“Then the Master will crucify you. You are a mad dog of the Abyss. That will prove you are beyond him. You think you are better than they are, because you are fighting for something?”

Jon only glared at the man. _What do you know what I am fighting for?_ But as he tried to raise his head, he felt as light as air, and the world began to spin. “You think you have it harder than them, tasting freedom before a collar was wrapped around your neck? No, I don’t know how it happened, but one look in your eyes is all I need. You fight for every last gasp. That’s good. Such a fury will keep you alive until I stick my blade into you.

“But you are not better than them. Alyxqo wanted to kill the man that enslaved him and his brothers, but then that mad died in the storm. Alasro was a slave that was loved the daughter of his master, before he was sent into the pits to die. He resolved to live. And the Alashant has a tale to tell you, when you have earned the right of it.”

“You say you want to kill me with one breathe, and with the other you are advising me. What do you want?”

“I don’t want to see the pool spoiled by your blood. Realize what you are, Andal, or sleep with a dagger. But careful; if anyone finds you stole a dagger from the armory, they’ll take your hand.” Then Jon heard the thumping of hard boots hitting on wet stone, and one of the sellsword guards appeared from around the corner.

“The Master wants him.”

“He can have him.” Yarkaz rose to his feet. “I have no use for him.”

Once a towel was wrapped around his waist, Jon was led through the halls. Red and pink were the halls of the manse. Jon remembered when he was first dragged through the streets of the city. He saw the crimson bricks sweat a faintly pink liquid. _Will these halls bleed as well?_ If the manse heard his thoughts, it gave no sign of it. Tapestries hung from the walls and whipped at the wind. Marble busts of scared and formidable men lined the walls, their pale gaze staring into Jon.

Jon felt a cold wind whip at him as he entered the solar of Terzac vo Hrasher. The man had all the windows open, and Jon could see the thick darkness of the sky behind the Master. An inkwell was near his hand as he scrawled across some parchment. “Andal. You look paler than I remember.” He looked towards the guard. “Leave us,” he commanded. The man did not even give an honorary grunt as he turned on his feet and closed the door behind him. “You are doing well in the yards.”

_So well that your slaves want to kill me._ “I was trained.”

“I can see that, but not in the short sword. You move like your arm is short by an inch.”

Jon licked at his lips. He could say who he was, but would the Ghiscari believe him? He may send Jon to the mines for being a liar. “I am used to longer weapons.”

“Such as the longsword?” Jon lifted his eyes at that. “You were not my first Westerosi, Jon. Jon, Jon, Jon.” Terzac vo Hrasher licked at his lips, as if he was tasting the name. “What does it mean?”

“What?”

He furrowed his brows. “Master. Learn your place, Andal, or my guards shall do it for you. I pay them enough for them to do that much, at least.” He leaned against the table. “Do your names mean anything, in Westeros?”

Jon did not know the answer to that. “In some regions, surely. But in the North, a name was just a name.”

“Is that what you are then? A…Northman?”

“My…lord was Eddard Stark. Of Winterfell.”

“Eddard Stark,” he said slowly. “Of Winterfell. By the Graces, I’ve heard that name before.” _He is the Hand of the King. He is a good man. He led the north with honor, and is respected by his lords. He is my father._ Terzac vo Hrahser waved his hand. “You fought for this Eddard Stark?”

“No. But my father did,” he said quickly. “And he would make sure that I would be a good sword for my lord.”

The Ghiscari’s eyes narrowed. “And did you? Fight for this Stark of Winterfell?”

_I would have, if I was on the Wall. If I had never known Daenerys. If I never had a son._ “No. There were no wars for me, and a man with a sword is useless when there are no wars. So I left for Essos.”

“And have you found your wars?” Terzac weaved his fingers under his chin.

He remembered the sound of the horses as the Dothraki charged on the field outside Qohor. He conspired to kill Khal Drogo there, and he failed. “A good deal of it.” It was Daenerys that succeeded in killing her husband. She was the one that secured her freedom. “And I lived where others dead.”

“You look the part. But you still won’t survive the Proving. You won’t survive Yarkhaz.”

“I bested all I was paired with.”

“Not enough. Not for me, not for your pride, and not for the crowd. They want more than a beating, Andal. They want _blood_. The Flayed Twins demand it.” The Master of Astapor leaned into his chair and frowned. “The longsword is a crude weapon.”

“It has been used by knights for thousands of years.”

“And what do you Andals know of war? Have you even seen a crossbow? I imagine not. But the longsword is _your_ weapon, do I have the right of it? Anything else will feel clumsy in your hands. Am I wrong in this?”

“You are not.”

The Ghiscari rasped his knuckled against the table. “Behind me is a chest. Open it.” Jon hesitated for a moment. “Go, Andal. I won’t command again.” Jon skirted around the table, made his way over the elaborate carpets, and found the chest. It was crafted from some kind of wood, that at one time was surely as crimson as blood, but the years had faded the color into a less inspiring color. The lock and metal that secured it, however, had preserved its golden hue. Jon loosened the latch, and the wood ached as he opened the lid. Admist the cloth and blankets was a sword. Jon recognized the weight at once. It was as familiar to him as the snows of Winterfell. He unfurled the wool and saw the blade. The hilt was curved, but the metal was long and straight. And heavy, as he felt the weight of it in his arms. “You sound pleased, Northman?”

“I am,” he said. His fingers pinched at the steel. The edges were worn, that much was plain, but the blade was strong. Jon would not say that it needed a smith’s care. “It is a good sword.”

“Could you kill with it?”

“I could,” he said. He turned towards Terzac vo Hrasher. “Where did you get that weapon?”

“My father had a Titan, as Yarkaz is mine. I don’t know if he was a son of the Sunset Lands, or if he was trained by someone from there. But that was his sword. And it will be yours.”

“Why?”

“Because I think I can have two Titans. No other son of Hrasher has ever had the honor. And Jon of Winterfell: a warning. The Alashant spoke true. A man alone is nothing. A dead man will have no vengeance, but a living one needs friends. Do you understand my me?”

“I do.”

“Good.” The Ghiscari Master clapped his hands, and a guard dressed in silks and leather stepped through the door. “Escort the Andal to the armory. He has a weapon to deposit there.”

_A man alone is nothing_. The words were in his head as he was brought into the depths below the estate. Among the spears and short swords and axes and nets, Jon found a hook just wide enough to catch the blade. He carefully laid it there. _My sword._ It was not the sword that Father had given him, but it was his regardless. It had seemed so strange to say something was his again. Bloodbeard stole Daenerys from him, and his life was bought by the city, and then by Terzac vo Hrasher in turn.

But the sword was his. He pictured cutting off Bloodbeard’s head with it. It was a sweet thought.

“The others are in the eating hall. You plan on going?”

_A man alone is nothing._ “I will.” The halls beneath the manor were more tunnels than anything else. He made his way through to find the bitter smell of gruel and broth filling his nose. On the far side he could see Alesro, one hand clutching the other as he clumsily brought a spoon to his lips.

Jon hade his way to him. He could not be alone. He could not die. “Get away from me, Andal.” Jon could feel the weight of the room’s stare on him. “I want no business from you.”

“I am sorry about what I did. You are better than that. You did not deserve to be treated like that.”

The Lysenne seemed taken back. He looked at Jon as if he grew another head. “Right. Of course not. I am Bloodsworne.”

Not further down was Iorwen. He saw the brands on the Tyroshi’s arms. _The arms that tried to rob breath from my lungs._ “I could help you, if you want. Teach you a bit of what I know.”

The wooden spoon hung from his lips. Iorwen quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand. “Why? I mean,” he said with a cough, “what makes you think I believe you?”

“Because,” Jon said, “I have enough enemies outside these walls. Every man needs friends. And every man needs to learn.”

“From his betters?” There was no trust in Iorwen’s words.

“With his friends.” Jon offered his hand. Iorwen looked left and right, and no doubt saw the entire hall looking on them. Iorwen clasped Jon’s hand.

**THE MOTHER OF DRAGONS**

In the month that followed, the Dothraki had come to call it _shierak qiya,_ the Bleeding Star. So named for the blood that was poured on the day her son was born. So named for the day that the dragons came back in the world. So named for the blood that she had sworn in vengeance. A few of the oldest men muttered about ill omens, but everyone else knew what it meant. This was _her_ comet, her and her son’s. _The gods themselves have sent it for us. They are showing me the way._

The way was Astapor. It was the Unsullied, the city that broke Khal Drogo. It was Jon, who was somewhere behind those dark red walls. It was her heart and her future. It was her biggest enemy. And she could not tread upon the path. “How many do I have?” she asked Ser Jorah on the first morning.

“More than a hundred, Your Grace. But less than a thousand.”

_No, I have less than a hundred_. She had Tareoh Nah Khaluk and his Rams, but many of them were enslaved or killed. Only a few dozen of that number remained. She had her three bloodriders, but all the rest of her khalasar were women and withered old men and boys with no bells in their hair, who had never seen a single victory.

“I have my dragons, but they are hatchlings. All I have is their potential. One day they will be my greatest champions, but now they are my greatest weakness.” As eggs, they were the most valuable treasure she had. Now hatched, they went beyond price. She could demand an entire city for just one of them. Perhaps she should exchange one of them for Jon. _If I did that, all would desert me. I cannot give away a dragon for just a single man._

“We cannot stay here My Queen,” Ser Jorah advised. His eyes were pleading. “This is death.”

“I will not leave Jon behind. I will not have it said that the Queen of the Kingdoms left her beloved to suffer in chains.”

She had No-Eyes. The man made a small bow as he entered her tent on the first day. Her son had a hunger as he sucked from her teat. Ghost was always near. “I don’t know how much an old man can provide you, Khaleesi.”

“Give the same that you gave to Jon,” she commanded. “Give me your words.”

He had smiled and bowed his head. “Then words you shall have. Run.”

“Where would I run to? Towards Astapor? Should I pull at my hair in grief and beg for them to return Jon now to me?”

“None would never doubt you for that, but none would ever believe you capable of such a thing. I least of all. Run away from shierak qiya. Go for the mountains.”

“The mountains are death.” She had heard what her bloodriders said what lied in the east. The ruins of Ghis, black and bellowing with smoke from the dragonfires of Valyria. Aggo told her that the gods of Ghis had abandoned that place, and how demons and vile spirits had filled the void. She had asked Aggo if any would follow her east towards Ghis. He replied that only the blood-of-her-blood would do such a thing.

“The mountains are life. We can forage for roots, and maybe kill a few goats that wander too close to our caves. We are in the forest of death. If the Astapori do not come for us, other khalasars will. And that will be the end of Jon’s son and your dragons.”

But she also had Ghost. Dany had feared him dead. None had seen the wolf when Bloodbeard made off with Jon. But then Ghost emerged from the smoldering forest, dark blood trickling down from his flank. No doubt that someone had tried to kill him – perhaps another Dothraki or one of the Cats. He padded his way to Daenerys, with her son in her arms, and he nuzzled against her side. “This is Jon’s son. This is my son. Will you protect us both, Ghost?” He made no noise as he licked at her hand.

So they fled into the south, towards the brown mountains that surrounded Astapor. Her son clutched to her breast as she rode Silver, suckling with a prince’s greed. _Even as a babe, you know what you are._ His hair was as dark as Jon’s, but he had her eyes. The bright violet of Valyria. One look on him and all would know him as a dragonlord. When he would grow to be king, he would take one of the three dragons as her own. But now he was just as weak they were. Weaker even – they at least could fly away. Her son could only clutch to her or the handmaids.

“Khaleesi,” Irri had said from behind. Dany rode from Silver, but her handmaids trailed behind on their feet. “The Khalakka must have a name. It is ill omen, for a Khalakka to go without a name before his first moon. It is known.”

“It is known,” echoed Jhiqui.”

“He will be named when Jon is returned to me.” Her son had plenty of names. Her khalasar had called him Khalakka with pride, while some of the Lhazareen called him the _Paropti_ , the Loud One. It was a good name. Her son _was_ loud, with a dragon’s appetite for attention. He was desperate to be heard.

“No matter what happens,” Jhogo swore, “the Khalakka will live, Khaleesi. The blood-of-your-blood would die a hundred deaths before your son suffers one.”

_This is what my son needs. Not for a sworn knight to flow from one king to the next. Men sworn to his life, to live as he lives, to die as he dies. One life in four bodies. No men with golden swords would strike him down on the Iron Throne._ She would make it so when she returned to Westeros. “I thank you for your oaths, Jhogo. But let us make sure we all live. We have a mountain to climb.”

But her handmaidens were insistent. “A name, Khaleesi. It is known.”

She had thought to chide them for that, tell them that the woman that returned dragons to the world had no place for superstitions. But when she looked into the eyes of her son, she could not refer to him just as her son. “Daemon,” she said as her Silver trotted over rocks, “that is the name of my son.”

The path was rocky and uneasy. The Rams had an easier time of it. “My mother used to boast that I was born on a mountain much like this one.” Tareoh Nah Khaluk rode the rocky mountains like he was bred for it.

“Used to?” Dany asked as her son was rocked to sleep in her arms. “What made her stop?”

“The Khal who took my eye.” He padded the arakh at his side. “One life for another. Seems a poor trade, but it is what it is. Careful now, Khaleesi. You are leaning too much. Likely to fall and break your pretty neck.”

But they did finally made their way into the mountains, and found a system of caves to call their own. The Rams instructed the women and children on what roots to gather. “ _Toqurlmi_ ,” Tareoh insisted. He spoke the word slowly, as if he was speaking to a babe. “It is dark and red. It looks poisonous, and you will wish it was when you swallow it down. But it will fill your bellies for a day.” Dany, however, had greater aspirations. She sent out her bloodriders with Ghost to look for any meat.

“This mountain cannot be a realm for the dead. Find meat and substance. My dragons must eat.” Jhogo, Aggo and Rakharo swore that they would make it so. Ghost seemed reluctant to leave, his red eyes searching her when she gave the command. But then Dany knelt and ruffled her fingers through his fur, and she commanded him to go again, and then he went.

Five days they rode onto the mountains in search for food, and it was only on the fifth night that they found a herd of mountain goats. In the meantime, they ate off of the toqurlmi roots. The taste was vile, and she had to chew it into a thick paste to swallow it. But Tareoh was right when he said it would sustain her. “You are feasting the best of us all,” she said to Daemon as he sucked at her. But then, just as the darkness was crossing over them, she heard shouts and cheers from Aggo as they returned.

It was her dragons that she feared for. She had the weakest of her horses butchered for their sake, but none of her dragons would have any of it. They would sniff at the pink meats and turn away in disappointment. For days she feared for them. _I lost my proud father, my beautiful mother. Viserys was killed murdered in the streets of Vaes Sash, and Jon is taken. I will not lose my dragons. I will not lose my son._ But then after a restless sleep she remembered something that her brother had told once. “Only dragons and men eat cooked meat.” She commanded that a fire be produced to char the cut meat black. It took hours under the timid fires, but when it was done the dragons eagerly ate up the charred cuts.

Jorah Mormont was named to her Queensguard, and she valued his rough counsel, although how he nearly deserted her did not leave her mind. “You have given your son the name Daemon. Why?”

“Is it not a fitting name, for a king? It is a name of Valyria.”

“Yes, My Queen, that much is true.” His dark green eyes focused on her. “It is also the name of Daemon Blackfyre, whose lineage spawned five rebellions against your house.”

She stared back at him, undaunted by the weight of her son in her arms. “And it was said that Daemon Blackfyre loved his sister Daenerys, and went to war for his sake. Do you know of any sons that do not love their mothers?”

“Only a few,” he said, “and none of them enviable.”

“Then that is why my son is Daemon Targaryen. The First of His Name, and you are sworn to safeguard his life.”

“It is as you say, My Queen. But what of your dragons? Black, Green and White won’t inspire fear in your enemies.”

“You are right, Ser. Aegon had his dragons named for old gods from Valyria. Visenya rode Vhagar, whose jaw was so wide that she could devour an auroch whole. Rhaenys rode Meraxes, and Aegon’s Balerion breathed fire that was black and hot and could melt knights in their armor.”

The dragons were her strength, but they also filled her people with dread. They looked at the dragons with unease. “Khaleesi,” Aggo motioned towards the black one, “that is Balerion come again.”

“Indeed he is,” she said as the black crawled up her free arm. “But my dragons will not be named for gods that none shall know. Mine shall be named for the three that made the Seven Kingdoms. The white and silver will be named Visgar, after Visenya. Rhaexes shall be named to honor Rhaenys, the sister-wife that Aegon loved most dear.”

Ser Jorah looked towards the black. “And the one with scales black and crimson?”

Dany smiled down at him. “He is Agerion.”

As her dragons grew and prospered, so did her people. Some of the oldest died from the ordeal of climbing the mountains and living off of bitter roots, but most survived. At first they crowded the caves, as if as the very sky would collapse on them as soon as they stepped out. But with the passing days came comfort and boldness, and soon the mothers dragged their children onto the mountains. The rocky hills were filled with campfires and the sounds of children, and the Rams sharpened their blades.

“I want constant patrols, Tareoh Nah Khaluk,” she commanded of the man on the third day. “I will not be blind. Not when my son’s life is at stake.” The man nodded and he soon set out to giving the order. After that there was never a time when she did not see one of the Rams in the distance, leaning on their spears as they preserved a vigilant eye. Her bloodriders often led a small company of Rams around the mountains.

“We must not get comfortable here,” No-Eyes cautioned. “It is an easy hole to fall into. Routine has ruined the best of men. Drogo grew comfortable, and that was his ruin.”

“Is that what it was, No-Eyes, or was it the poison that you gave me?”

Dany had thought she had pressed too far, but No-Eyes gave no sign. “His comfort was that he would win all his victories. He thought that he would command, and all would follow. He thought all was secure. Remember Astapor. Remember your son.”

“I haven’t,” she said. “I have not forgotten Jon. But I also know I can’t just march up to them. Drogo had almost eighty thousand and the walls of the city pushed him away. I have less than a hundred.”

No-Eyes smiled. “So long as you know your weaknesses, you know your strengths. You have less than a hundred, but you have three dragons. When you see the advantage, seize it.”

The days rolled by, and the dragons began to grow. Their screeches filled the morning air, and Dany feared that the sound would echo onto the paved roads below. But Dany did not have the will to keep them caged. They had to fly, they needed the freedom. “Dragons would grow so long as they had the open sky above them,” Viserys said once. And she needed her dragons to grow. The last dragon of the Targaryen Dynasty had a skull the size of an apple. Her dragons needed to be large enough to ride upon.

She needed her dragons to consume her enemies in fire and blood. It was how Aegon forged his kingdom, and hers would be no different. But Aegon had his sister-wives, while Jon was trapped within Astapor. Aegon had soldiers and warships, while Dany only had the young boys and old men that bowed before her. _I am alone, while Aegon had an army._

She had Irri and Jhiqui gather for her all of the treasures that they claimed from the camp. There were lion fangs and belts of pearls, and a few sand silk slippers. The hrakkar pelt may have brought a fine price, but it was burnt and ruined. She kept it to remember Jon, but wearing it brought no warmth to her in the night. “How easily would a Master of Astapor give away a slave?”

“Not cheaply,” Jhiqui said.

“This would not buy back Jon Snow,” Irri said. “The Masters are known for hoarding their slaves. It is known.”

“It is known,” Jhiqui said, and Dany’s heart fell.

One day she found Ser Jorah leaning against a crimson stone as he sharpened his blade. “Ser Jorah,” and at his name he rose to his feet. “Tell me what you know of Astapor.”

“Not much, besides a rhyme that is well known. Brick and blood built Astapor, and brick and blood her people. It is a cruel place, Your Grace. The Unsullied are their pride, but no mother would ever wish her son to become one.”

“No mother would ever wish her son to become a slave.” She thought of her beautiful son in chains, and the thought filled her with a fury. “What of the city itself? The canals, the streets?”

“You cannot rescue Jon in a daring raid,” Ser Jorah cautioned. His eyes were narrowed. “You know not of where he is, who it is that holds the whip, and how to reach him. We need information. We need time.”

“We have time, but Jon does not.” _He could be dead. He could be dying at a crucifix._ “How can you advise me to wait, when my life of your king could hang in the balance?”

“Because it is what you must do, Your Grace.”

_He forgets himself._ “There is nothing I must do but keep my son safe. Remember yourself, Ser. I am queen. A queen does as she wishes.”

He bowed his head in respect. “Forgive me, My Queen. I only advise you as I can.”

It wasn’t just Ser Jorah. Tareoh Nah Khaluk also advised her on how they had no eyes in the city. “Then give me eyes,” she commanded.

“How?” he shrugged. “As soon as any Dothraki enter, they would be killed or chained. The same for any of my Rams. You could pass yourself off as a daughter of Lys, except that you stink of horse. That Queensguard of yours is the best bet, but even then he would not live long without a purse full of coin. And that is assuming word has not spread that Jorah Mormont did not ride with Khal Drogo. You are trying to cut your way through a fog, and your sword is rusted and broken.”

She wanted to admit that they were right. None of it came from a cruel place. None of them said Jon could not be rescued. Just not now. But now was the time when she needed him. As the night fell she held her son in her arms. His fingers pulled at hers as she cradled him. “Your father lives. I could not say as such when I came into the world, but you can. I promise you, my love, I will bring Jon to you.”

It was on the third week when Aggo rushed into her cave. “Khaleesi, there are riders coming up the mountain.”

She rose up at once and rushed her son into Irri’s arms. “Banners? Colors? Anything to say who they are?”

“None, Khaleesi. No markings at all.”

“Then we must rush to meet them. Send word to Tareoh that I want half a company of his Rams with me. I want at least ten men to protect my handmaids and my son. If we do not return within two hours he is take my son and everyone else and flee as far as he can.”

“Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said, “what of your dragons? You will win no thrones without them.”

Her son was her future, but she could not win it without her dragons. _I am a little girl in so many ways._ “Have just as many protect my dragons. None shall see sight of them until my return.”

Within the hour, Dany was astride Silver and looking down on the party that rode up the mountainside. She saw Quaithe in her glimmering red mask, veiled in black robes that were pulled by the wind. Following behind her were a small party dressed in black, in gray, in silver, in all the dark and muted colors of the world. And all had their faces hidden behind a lacquered mask.

None spoke save for Quaithe of the Shadowlands. “I come to you bearing gifts, Daenerys Stormborn.”

From Silver Dany looked over the procession. “I see no luxuries, no jewels. What gifts have you brought me, Shadowbinder?”

“The greatest of them all.” Dany could see the twinkling stars behind Quaithe’s mask. “Words of wisdom. Did I not warn you to beware of all, except the wolf?”

_Beware of the harpies, beware of the lion, beware of the griffon and his fat sponsor, and beware of all other dragons._ “I have not forgotten your words. Why have you come?”

“To see the dragons, and the mother that returned them to the world.”

Daenerys Targaryen raised her head. “You have found them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's talk shop for a bit. 
> 
> I wanted to start the arc in the same way that Martin started A Clash of Kings - with a perspective rooted in magic. Dragonstone was the setting for Clash's prologue, and the seas surrounding Valyria sets the stage for the Astapor Arc. With the return of dragons, magic is coming back into the world, and with the very first sentences detailing the magical ruins of Valyria, the readers know it. 
> 
> Those who have seen Spartacus: Blood and Sand will see definite resemblances with Jon's arc. Spartacus was a big "lightbulb" when I was envision my fic. "Jon as a gladiator" is one of those wicked corny AUs you see on Tumblr, but I wondered if it could be done right. And I loved the weird sort of brotherhood we saw the gladiators had in that series. It was almost like a knightly order, in a totally absurd way. Those ideas are what got my gears turning. 
> 
> I wanted the very first - THE VERY FIRST- piece of Astapor we witness be the absolute truth. In the words of PoorQuentyn, Astapor is moloch in the guise of heaven. Terzac is proud of his home, but he is blind to the corruption that is eating away at it. The Abyss showcases the heart of the city. Slavery eats away at the morals of man - it is an abomination, and we see that abomination in its unadulterated glory. The very city ate up the Hamarq estate, just as it does with all the souls living within it.
> 
> This is a theme I will be using constantly in regards to Astapor. If I can showcase the decadence of the city, I will.


	13. Red and White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New arrivals at the Wall. Jon adapts to the blood pits. Alliances are made in Westeros.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter with musical selections can be found here: http://wp.me/P7Obn3-4m

**XII**

**RED AND WHITE**

**THE KING IN THE NORTH**

 

In his bones, Robb knew that he should not be here.

The walls were pillars of ruined rock and mortar. Vines and moss curled around the ruined halls like tendrils, and most of the curtain wall was reduced to ruins and desecration. Dislodged stones tilted over the yard, and the darkened ruins of balconies were piled over them. The Westerland summer was high and sweltering, but Robb could only feel a numbing breeze.

Grey Wind was at his side, and the direwolf bore all of the empathic looks that Robb could not afford to show. He was the King in the North. His face needed to be stalwart. He wore the face of a king, but sometimes Robb wondered if that was enough. He was a man of twenty, barely a man, and he now led a host of nearly twenty thousand strong.

It was supposed to be to save Father and Arya and Sansa. Now it was meant to avenge them all.

 _All those that left Winterfell are gone. Father’s execution is known across the land. Arya and Sansa have not been seen for months. No doubt they are dead now, their corpses hidden or desolated. And the entirety of Westeros has heard of Jon’s oath to Daenerys Targaryen. Brother, you should never have left. You should never have left my side._ He should have talked Father down, insisted that Jon stay with him in Winterfell.

The halls of Castamere fit his mood. The houses of Reyne and Tarbeck had revolted against the Lannisters. The father of Tywin Lannister was a weak and mild-mannered man, and the Reynes and Tarbecks could smell the blood in the water. For the insult, Tywin Lannister destroyed them, completely and utterly. Not one son of the house of Reyne and Tarbeck survived. Only the ruins of their castles could speak for them. Beyond the hill, Robb could see the mine gated by iron and oak. It was there that Tywin Lannister drowned every man and woman of House Reyne.

Robb had brought a small display of power with him. The Greatjon Umber had insisted that he attend to the King in the North, as did Galbert Glover of Deepwood Motte. The banners of the direwolf, the screaming giant and mailed fist flew over them. He had sent more than he showed into the bushes and the trees that surround them, armed with crossbows and spears. If this was all a trap the Tyrells would spring, Robb would have one of his own.

“They will come,” Mother promised. She was astride next to him, and behind her was the Lady Brienne of Tarth. He had sent her to treat with Renly, to encourage an alliance. She returned with a woman dressed in armor and the proposal of a marriage.

She had stood before him in his tent, Lady Brienne at her side, when she gave Robb the letter with the rose seal. “Mother, do you forget that I am already betrothed to one of Walder Frey’s daughters?”

“I do not, nor do I forget the circumstances that forced you into that. That betrothal was brokered at the edge of a knife. This one would be made among equals in good standing.”

“Perhaps, but I still gave my word. Frey men died for my cause. What kind of king would I be if I turned on them? What kind of man?”

“One that would serve his people. The Freys gave us five thousand men, and yes, some did die for your cause. But the Tyrells have the might of the Reach behind them, and that is a force forty-thousand fathered at Bitterbridge. A force of that size would crush both Baratheon and Lannister. Tywin Lannister would have no choice but to sue for peace. Marry Margaery Tyrell, and your kingdom is secured.”

The words were sounded, but they all seemed so wrong to him. A king’s word had to have worth. “Would Father do the same?”

“Your Father would do whatever was necessary. Robb, I loved your Father, and there are days when I can almost feel him, hear him in the night. But for all the love ho bore me, he did dishonor me with the mother of Jon Snow. Even the best of men, the greatest even, are open to weakness. Consider yourself blessed that your weakness is simply a proposal.”

And so, there they were, in the shadow of Tywin Lannister’s greatest victory, to conspire towards his downfall. If Robb had to be honest with himself, he would commend the Tyrells. They moved with a faster pace than he ever would have expected. Just two days past the agreed upon hostages, Lyonel and Raymund Tyrell, both nephew to Lord Paramount Mace Tyrell, arrived to offer themselves. And just as they had made their way over the crest of the hill, Robb could see the golden rose of Tyrell on the horizon.

For all the speed the North displayed, the Tyrells seemed content to keep Robb’s lords grumbling in their saddles. Grey Wind whined with impatience at his side, but Robb kept on the face of the king. Let his bannermen mutter amongst themselves the idleness of the Reachmen. The Tyrells didn’t come to treat with the Lords of Last Hearth or Deepwood Motte or the Mormonts of Bear Island. They came for the King in the North, and Robb would give them that charade.

Still, Robb’s mind kept on turning northwards. He had penetrated the heart of the Westerlands to drive Tywin Lannister from Harrenhal. So long as that man claimed that castle as his seat, he was free to lay siege to the Riverlands unopposed. Robb had claimed a victory at Oxcross and ended the life of Tywin’s good-brother Stafford. That should have ushered him home. It did not. Tywin still yet remained in Harrenhal, still the Riverlands were set to the sword, and still there were mutterings of Ironborne ships off of the Northern coast. His bannermen wanted to move, to plunder and raid and spill Lannister blood, but Robb had to remain firm. Tywin had to march west or see the Westerlands burn around him.

 _So long as Bran and Rickon are in Winterfell, they are safe._ But then he thought of Jon, and he was less than certain. Rumors and dark wings said that Jon had bedded and claimed Daenerys Targaryen, and that Father had conspired to put both on the throne. It was said that he even admitted as such before Joffrey Baratheon had him murdered. Robb knew his father would never conspire so low, not even for Jon, and the rest of the North knew that as well. But the idea still wasn’t out of his head that Jon wouldn’t fall for a Targaryen. _Is Daenerys the same as her father? Is she the Mad King’s daughter?_ Who knew what was going on across the Narrow Sea? He wrestled with a fog for answered, and got nothing for it save a bloody headache.

The Tyrells came through the ruined gates. Robb had never met the man, but he knew the Knight of Flowers when he saw him. He had heard of the charms of Ser Loras Tyrell, but the true material shamed all the stories Robb had heard. His hair was brown, light like chestnuts, and streamed past his shoulders. Any Southron girl would melt looking into his eyes, as blue as the sea. _I sound like half a girl myself._ Ser Loras Tyrell rode in wearing a green doublet stitched with golden roses and vines, and attendees raised high the Tyrell banner over him. _As if there was any doubt._ For all their commitments to secrecy, the Tyrells had no lack for fanfare.

But Robb had fanfare of his own. “My lords!” Ser Brynden Tully barked from his steed, his left hand holding high the gray wolf of Stark. “I present His Majesty, Robb Stark, the King in the North, the King in the Riverlands, the Young Wolf!”

“My king,” Ser Loras said as he vaunted off from his horse. “It is a pleasure to meet the Young Wolf in the flesh.” He offered his hand.

Robb gave Loras Tyrell a firm grip. “And here I see before me the Knight of Flowers. Hearing from my sister, I would imagine you the most gallant knight in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Were that I so,” he said, “then perhaps Renly Baratheon would still be among the living.” There was a grief in his voice that Robb knew all too well. So soon after Father was taken, and it took Robb what he could to not have his voice break in the face of his lords.

“He shall be avenged,” Mother said as she approached. “He and all the rest that have been taken from us.”

There was a twitch of a smile on the Tyrell knight. There were rumors and whispers that Renly and Loras Tyrell were more than friends. Loras was squired to Renly when he was the lord of Storm’s End, but something nagged at Robb that they were more than that. “Allow me to congratulate you on your many victories, Your Grace. The realm is bursting with tales of your accomplishments on the battlefield.”

“Victories that are well earned, and well bled for. Many men died for that cause. I am here to ensure that their sacrifices have meaning.” _The Freys wanted a marriage out of me. Men of their blood have died for their cause. Now I mean to break their oaths…in favor of one that will win me the war. The whole of the Reach behind me. What force could withstand that?_ Wars were won just as often on the marriage bed as they were on the battlefield, he knew. Father’s marriage to Mother earned him the forces of the Tullys in the Rebellion. _But Father never broke a vow when he married my mother._

Robb peered over Loras Tyrell. “Ser Loras,” he said, “where is your Lord Father?”

The Knight of Flowers smiled as he turned his destrier. “He should be coming…ah! There he is.”

Robb could not mistake Mace Tyrell, Warden of the South. The Paramount Lord’s beard was waxed, oiled and curled. Robb could feel the disgust the Greatjon had at the sight of him. Robb had never seen a Father more unlike his son since he saw King Robert and Prince Joffrey ride through the gates of Winterfell. Ser Loras had a face cut from features sharp and bold, while Lord Mace was plump and soft.

Behind Mace Tyrell came the banners, even more glorious than the ones that accompanied his son.

“My father does love his honors.”

“That he does,” Robb said as he nudged his horse forward. “That he does.”

When they approached, the Paramount Lord bowed in his saddle. “Your Grace,” he said with a flowery air. Robb was surprised the man was able to do so without falling from his horse. He tried to imagine what Lord Mace’s curled beard would look caked in mud. “It was a pleasure to host your Lady Mother when she arrived with my son and daughter.”

“Lord Mace was a gracious host,” Mother said. “The riches of Highgarden were made known to me during my stay.”

“I must admit,” the Paramount Lord said, “I was not expecting you to react so quickly.”

“I am a king at war, My Lord. Speed is a necessity.”

“So it is,” Lord Tyrell said as he straightened his beard. “So it is. I am not so unaccustomed to war. I laid siege to Storm’s End for the better part of a year.” _More like you laid siege to a dining table while Stannis Baratheon and his men starved._

Robb had never met any from House Tyrell before, but he knew that Willas Tyrell was crippled in a joust with Prince Oberyn. He saw none with a crippled leg among the Tyrell host. “Lord Mace, where is your son and heir?”

“Safe,” he said, “in Highgarden, awaiting news of what happens here.” _Safe from me, you mean. You are willing to risk you and your youngest boy, but not the son that you rest the future of your House on. You are willing to wed your daughter to a man you don’t trust._ “But there is one whom refused the safeties of my home. She insisted that she come.”

“Lady Margaery? Your daughter is here?”

“Indeed she is,” Ser Loras said. “She was right on Father’s heels, if I remember right.”

And then, Robb heard the sound of a horse in trot, and a sing-song voice that spoke over the silence of Castamere. “There he is,” cried out Margaery Tyrell, “the King in the North!” The daughter of Highgarden did not wear the extravagance favored by her Lord Father. Her garments were simply dyed green and yellow, with only a sparse spread of flowers stitched into the sleeves of her gown. Her light brown hair curled down her shoulders. She was beautiful. No other word could describe it. Sansa would chide him for being so blunt, Robb knew.

He kept his face still, as father would when he would become the Lord of Winterfell. “Lady Margaery,” he greeted with a nod…and the smallest twitch of a smile. _Even the Kings in Winter had to be civil._

“Behold, Your Grace,” Mace Tyrell said with pride. “Your Mother and I have laid down the foundations of this alliance. This is mortar that will solidify it. My daughter; Margaery.”

She laid her soft hands in his, and to feel something so soft was a welcome relief from the months of war. He gave it a tender kiss. “My Lady, it is good for you to arrive. I had begun to suspect that my Lady Mother had spoken with a phantom of her imagination. I see that her descriptions of you are far too accurate.”

She gave a pleasant smile. “I had often thought the same, on my ride to this ruin. It is a good thing that I am not in charge of your titles, Your Grace, or I fear I would have named you the Comely Wolf.”

Mace Tyrell smiled. “My daughter’s wits and bias are in full display, Your Grace.”

The Knight of Flowers could not keep himself from grinning. “If any noble girl would win over your Northern bannermen, it would be her.”

“I should remind you,” Uncle Brynden said, “that one noble woman of Southron stock has already won over the North. And she is the mother of the King.”

“And it will happen again,” Mother said with confidence. “If Lady Margaery’s good graces won’t win your men over, then the armies your marriage would summon surely will.”

“Once it is gone and done with, Your Grace, the Reach will be behind the North.” Margaery Tyrell laid her other hand on top of Robb’s. “Our marriage will unite the North and the South, and put a stop to this madness in King’s Landing.”

“Madness indeed,” echoed her father. “Murdering a Paramount Lord on Baelor’s steps? Without even the Gods given right of a trial? Not even my nightmares could imagine such blasphemy.”

“I could imagine such a thing,” Robb said. “All of the North knew of a day when a grandfather and an uncle were murdered within the Red Keep.” _A king that you fought for._

Lord Tyrell bristled. “A different time. A different king. A different age. I would not be here now, if I felt inclined to put my stock with the spawns of incest.”

“Incest?”

“Your Grace,” Ser Loras said, “have you not heard?”

“Ravens travel slowly on the battlefield. What are you saying, Lord Tyrell?”

“From Sunspear to Winterfell, Stannis Baratheon has sent out an army of ravens. They all carry a simple message: Cersei’s children were created in union with her brother. The _kingslayer_ ,” he added with disdain.

Robb turned towards his mother. “Mother, you have spoken with Stannis Baratheon. Is he saying these things?”

“He says such things,” she said. “The truth of those words need to be determined. It would help his cause, that is without a doubt. Who would fight for a bastard’s cause?” _Half of the realm rose up for Daemon Blackfyre, in the first of the rebellions named in his honor. But Joffrey is no Daemon Blackfyre. He was a little shit in Winterfell, and I doubt he has improved in the year and a half since._

“Words are wind,” Robb said. “I heard from my Lady Mother that you have a hundred thousand strong at your backing.”

“It is so, Your Grace.”

“Then tell me, how quickly can I have those hundred thousand?”

“That,” Lord Mace said with hesitation, “is hard to say. Marshalling the Hightowers with the Oakhearts and the Redwynes will take time. Lord Randyll Tarly is with me already. If I heard right, you could not even rally the full might of the North in your race south.”

“As you say, it was a race. I had to get what I could to reach King’s Landing. I had to save my father.” _My enemy was the hourglass, and that was my greatest defeat._

“The realm weeps for your father,” Margaery said, and for a moment Robb believed her words. Than he remembered who was speaking the words, and why. “None believe that he would put your bastard brother on the throne.”

“I know my father, and I know my brother. The entire North knows those words to be were lies. No doubt he was trying to secure the safety of my sisters.” Robb dare not say that he had doubts on what Jon Snow was doing across the Narrow Sea. Half of his men believed that he did make a child with Daenerys Targaryen. Of that half, more than a score thought that Jon Snow was Aegor Bittersteel come again, and was amassing an army to secure a throne for his Targaryen bride.

Ser Loras stepped forward. “Then let your father be avenged. Wed my sister, join our houses, and let us send our regards to the Lannisters.”

“The Freys will be wroth, beyond a doubt.”

“We spoken about the Freys,” Mother said. “They cannot have you. But they already have your sister Arya.” _Whom we have heard no word of in months._ “And they can have Willas Tyrell.”

“My son is most passionate about his family,” Mace Tyrell said. “My brave son and heir will wed whatever girl that Walder Frey proposes.”

“You would give the Freys power in both the North and the South?”

“All so that we can be wed,” Margaery Tyrell said. “All so we can have this alliance. Your Grace, I understand your doubts.”

“Do you?”

“I do,” she insisted. “Frey men died for you. You promised to make one of Walder Frey’s daughters a queen, and now you feel you must turn your back on that promise. The entire realm knows just how honorable Lord Stark was, and no doubt his son as well. But, Your Grace, the realm also has not forgotten that Walder Frey only marched his men when he had your oath of marriage. There is little honor in that. That oath was made at the point of a knife, while this one,” and she laid her hand on her chest, “is made among allies. Among friends, Your Grace, friends that were not waiting for the war to go in their favor while innocents suffered.”

“You married Renly Baratheon. You would have been queen. Don’t tell me there would be no benefit for your house.”

“And will the North not prosper, when you strike down Joffrey Baratheon? Will the North not reach greater heights, when the Lannisters are brought low? Your noble intentions do not make you immune to the spoils of war, Your Grace.”

“Lady Margaery,” he said after a time, “my mother told me you had many features. But boldness was not one of them.”

She smiled sweetly. “I am pleased that your mother did not spoil all of me before we could meet. Nor did she say as much about you as I would have liked.”

“And what did Lady Catelyn leave out?”

“Well,” she said, looking him over, “you are shorter than how I imagined.”

There was a silence. Lord Tyrell and his son said nothing. Uncle Brynden gaped at her, and Mother clutched at the reins of her destrier to keep her mouth shut. Robb could hear Greatjon Umber and Lord Glover rustling in their mounts. “Shorter?”

“Indeed,” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in all the world. “The Young Wolf, the son of the North that was made it’s king. The king that leads from the front, with fire and sword and wolf, if tales are true. Those _are_ bloodstains on your cuirass and cloak, are they not? I feared that I would need to step on my tip toes when we would kiss, My King. I’m glad to know that you are much closer to my height.”

“When?” He felt a smile find its way across his face. “My Lady, you sound so very sure that you have won me over.”

“Robb Stark, I do believe I already have.”

 

**THE SHE-WOLF OF WINTERFELL**

 

Arya snorted. “You can fish?”

Aegon must have been offended, because he reeled back like he was slapped. “Of course I can fish. What makes you think I can’t?”

 _Because you are a Targaryen, and I could never see Aegon the Conqueror with a rod._ “I don’t see you with a straw hat, Your Grace.” She shouldn’t be jesting with him, she knew. But Arya couldn’t see a better way out of the situation. “Don’t you have to spend hours to get a catch? Unless you want the sun to peel the flesh from your bones.”

Aegon had a smirk on her face, and Arya didn’t like that one bit. “There are these things called trees, Lady Stark. Perhaps you have seen a few of them?”

She could feel the sailors’ eyes on her now. Aegon smiled at her, in a way not so unlike how Sansa or Jeyne would smile. They were no laughs, not like Winterfell, but she just knew there were grins behind her back. “Of course I know what trees are. There is a godswood in Winterfell. Even the Red Keep has a godswood. Don’t tell me you are ignorant of that, Your Grace?”

Pink flushed to the Targaryen’s cheeks, and Arya could see how he chewed on his teeth as he searched for an answer. “I was only jesting.”

“As was I,” she smiled. She felt Nymeria rub against her in approval, and the ticklish fur almost made her giggle. They had been at the sea for weeks now, and the black ruins of Valyria were behind them. Arya remembered the dread that crawled through her when she first saw it. She could not even get Nymeria to leave their cabin. But Arya could not even see fallen Valyria on the horizon, not anymore, and now there was only the deep blue sea.

She should be irritated by Aegon, but it was a welcome change. So long as Valyria was in sight, Aegon had been quiet and solemn. He would always be staring at the ruins in silence. But now he seemed as bright as the sky, as if just the sight of Valyria drained whatever joy there was in the world.

Perhaps it did. Everyone had heard of the stories. Valyria was consumed by fire and ash, its beaches were formed from soot and bone, and dark things prowled on those nightly shores. She didn’t need Old Nan to fill her with terrors of Valyria. The distant sight of the desolation was enough.

She had the advantage now, she could see that by the way Aegon was twiddling with his thumbs. Bran would do much the same, whenever Father was lecturing him. _But Bran was only ten and three when he fell, while Aegon is a man grown._ “If you can fish, where is your rod?”

“Come now, Lady Stark. Leave the Prince be. Wolves don’t play with their dead.” Arya turned to see tall Rolly Duckfield striding towards them. The man had hair and beard just as red as Sansa’s, but his eyes were a cool brown. The man was an impressive height; he would have been the tallest man Arya had ever seen were it not for the Hound. “Egg, I trained you at arms, did I not?”

“That you did, Ser.”

“So why is your tongue so blunt?”

Aegon had smiled at that. “You taught me to be quick on my feet, not on my wits, Ser.”

Rolly scratched at his beard…and adjusted his feet as the ship was rocked by the waves. “I suppose so. Poor teacher I am.”

Aegon wouldn’t let that go. He leaned against a large and sturdy barrel, his face spread in a wide smile. “Not so poor as to make a sword out of me. Not so poor as to be knighted for the honor. I still remember the squawks from all the ducks when Jon made you a knight.”

“Aye,” Rolly said in a gruff tone, “that is how it happened. Maybe I’m surrounded by men with poor sense.”

 _Gods, they should kiss and get it over with._ “What do you need, Ser?” That came off more harsh than she meant, but she had a horrid time sleeping the night before. And the night before that, and the one before that one too. The ship rocked all the way past the Smoking Sea, and no matter how many pillows she laid on her head or how she turned, a good rest was forever beyond her grasp.

“The Captain-General wanted words, Arya Stark.” Gone was the bright smile of the man that was made a knight in a field of ducks. He sounded as sour and orderly as any man in the Company.

Aegon scrunched his brows. “What does Toyne want with her?” _Offended that he wants me and not you, Prince?_

Duckfield shrugged at that. “I am just a knight, Majesty. I take orders, not give them.” Rolly must not have been a knight for very long, or seen how knights in Westeros treated the smallfolk, to think like that. Aegon declared he would come, but the knight insisted that Myles Toyne wanted only Arya. Aegon bristled at that, which amused Arya plenty.

The quarters that should have been reserved for the captain of the _Kaevo Yarephos_ were granted to the Captain-General. Arya wondered what the ship’s captain, the pot-bellied Summer Islander Nazabar Xaqo, would have decorated his quarters with. Whatever he would have done, Myles Toyne would not have approved, for he had turned the spacious room into a chamber for war. A large red oak table was nestled in the heart of the room, with maps and scrolls and candles spread across it. Arya could spot a selection of weapons – broadswords and twin-headed axes – leaning against a wall.

Myles Toyne hovered over his desk. It was only her entering that drew his eyes from the map. “Come in, Stark. That will be all, Ser.” With a nod and a smile, the knight turned on his feet and closed the door behind him. “I suppose you don’t drink. You are only…what, four and ten?”

“Seven and ten,” she lied. She was six and ten in truth, just about a full woman grown. She already had her first moon blood long before King Robert rode into Winterfell. “I drank when King Robert visited.” That was not a lie. Father and Mother allowed her and Sansa and Robb one cup, and only one. Robb treated every sip as if it was the most precious gift in the world, and he kept on glaring at Jon who, far down the hall seated among the squires and servants, was allowed to drink to his heart’s content. The memory brought a smile to her face.

“Well I am no king, but you can have a cup all the same. Would you prefer the white of Lys or the red of Tyrosh?”

 “What’s the difference?”

“A world. I’ll give you the red.” The Captain-General walked over to a shelf and unstrapped a flask filled with the crimson drink. It was decorated with silver spirals. He filled two glasses and handed one to Arya. “Far sweeter than the white, which is more of an acquired taste I’ve found.”

Arya sniffed the wine. It did smell of raspberries. She would ride through the patches in the fields that surrounded Winterfell, laughing all the while Jon or Robb would yell back in their chase. “Acquired by whom?”

“By those that have gold pouring out of every hole in their bodies.” Arya took a sip, and the sweetness rolled in like waves over the tongue. She sucked on her lips before drinking some more. She took in more that time. “I suppose I should keep my cache of red hidden from you?”

She narrowed her eyes at Toyne. “I’m no thief.” She remembered the dead soldiers that she had found on the Kingsorad. That wasn’t stealing. They were dead, and you can’t steal from the dead unless they are in crypts. “I would at least _tell_ you I’m going to take something.”

He leaned back into his chair. “Then won’t I try to hide whatever it is you plan on taking?”

“Of course,” she smiled. “That makes it fun. Sansa would always wonder where all her combs would go and…” She shouldn’t be talking of home, not here, not now, not with the Golden Company, and sure as hells not with Myles Toyne.

“Go on,” the old man insisted, in a soft tone that Arya had never heard from him before.

“No,” she said stubbornly. She put the glass on the table. _The drink is making me talk._ “It’s stupid.”

“Most here wouldn’t agree.” Myles Toyne shifted in his seat. The chair groaned under his bulky frame. He was dressed in a light shirt that was not tied up, and Arya could see the dark hair that curled up his chest. “You had a home. For them, it is just an idea.”

“What do you want, Myles?” She had enough philosophy from Aegon to last a few lifetimes.

“Just to talk,” he said, and somehow Arya believed him. “Whenever we spoke, it was always in front of my men, or my captains. You see me as the Captain-General. I thought it best we get to know each other, since we both need the other so desperately. More wine?”

She shook her head. “You’re being too kind, Blackheart.”

He snorted. “Blackheart. ‘Tis just a name, the one piece of inheritance I got from my family line. Put fears in the soft hearts of my men, which works just fine for me. Make them scared of me, make them think I am hard and cruel.”

“And the truth?”

Myles Toyne took a sip. The red wine stirred in the glass. “Firm but fair. That is my rule as Captain-General of the Company. Won’t cut a man’s hand off unless he tries to steal from us. He’ll get lashed if he breaks line, but only as much as he earns. It is no easy thing, to keep sellswords disciplined.”

That surprised her. Even as far as Westeros, the tales of the Golden Company spoke of their hard discipline and iron resolve. “I thought the Golden Company was made of surer stuff.”

“Men are men at the end of the day, and not all of us are born to the sons of exiles. Some just want to make their way under our banner. We are _very_ wealthy, as you’ve seen, and not because of our forefathers. House Toyne has left no cache of riches for myself, I promise you that. The wealth we wear on our persons are earned from being the most discipline company in Essos.” He smiled in a grin made of gaps and crooked teeth. “That is one thing I can be proud of.”

“And what else do you have to be proud of?” She drank from the cup.

His eyes glimmered. “That I will be the first son of Toyne to step on Westeros in many years.”

“You seem very sure of that.”

“Just as sure as you are of finding your bastard brother.” His lips spread into a small wrinkle of a smile. “We will find them, Arya Stark.”

Arya chewed on her lip. “Why do you want that, Myles Toyne? Wouldn’t it be better if my brother was…”

“Dead? Killed by Khal Drogo, wasted away by disease, or some other cruel fate that would leave Daenerys alone in her grief?” His voice was hard, and he seemed every bit the Blackheart. “We are not evil men. It would be easier, yes, but not _better_.” The Captain-General brought the glass to his lips and drank deep. “Aegon would not wish that either.”

“What makes you so sure of what Aegon wants? He wants to take Daenerys away from my brother. He would probably _dance_ if my brother is…dead.” The word sounded as bitter as poison on her lips. The thought made her sick. She grabbed the glass so quickly that wine spilled, and she drank it down with such abandon that more of it slipped past her chin than down into her mouth. She angrily wiped it away with the back of her hand.

Myles was silent until Arya forced the glass onto the table. The table cloth was stained pink. “Don’t presume to know of what the boy wants, Stark. He has supped on grief as well.”

“Of course,” she said under a heavy breath. “His sister and mother. His father.”

“It is no easy thing, to have the burden that he carries. He was just a babe when it happened. Ask him to describe his mother, and you won’t have an answer.” His large fingers curled around the glass. “He has learned of death. Trust me; he would not wish your brother’s death on you.” Myles turned away from her, stared out the glass window. The seas were calm, but even then the _Kaevo Yarephos_ moaned. His thumb rolled over the silver spirals of the glass. “The boy is more like his father than he thinks. More than even Connington thinks.”

 _He is the son of Rhaegar, the man that abducted Lady Lyanna and raped her._ Arya knew she had no choice but to remain with the Company. But Myles was a fool if he thought that anyone like Rhaegar Targaryen would be a good man. Rhaegar had abducted and raped Aunt Lyanna. Everyone knew that. If Aegon was anything like his father, if he was a threat to Jon or anyone else, Arya would kill him.

That was a promise.

Something must have been written on her face, for Myles Toyne gave her a hard look. “Lady Stark,” he said in a graveled tone, “I want to say something that should not reach Aegon’s ears.”

“Why me? Isn’t Jon Connington your right-hand man?”

He nodded. “In many ways, yes. But Jon is close to the boy. Protective, as he should be. Aegon was placed under Connington’s care, and Jon was…he was close to Prince Rhaegar. On matters concerning that boy, Jon cannot be trusted.”

“But I can? Is that what you are saying?”

Myles Toyne gave a gruff nod. “You won’t cheer for his death, but you would not oppose to seeing Aegon on the Iron Throne. If he died, you would not grieve for him.”

“And are you any different? If I died, would you shed a tear?”

“A tear, aye.” Myles Toyne paused for a moment, his fingers circled around base of his cup. “You were quite desperate to be on those cogs we sent out to scout Astapor.” _The Seaward Spear._ Arya had howled at Myles Toyne, Connington, Aegon, any that would have allowed her to step onto the deck of that cog. None listened. They had sailed half a moon before the rest of the Golden Company’s fleet, and no word from them since.

But that had not seemed so strange to Arya. The seas…at times, it went on without end. How long could it take for ships to sail the sea and return? “I still do.”

The Captain-General looked at her with narrow eyes. “Do you? Those ships are lost, Arya Stark.”

“How are you so certain?”

“A man knows,” he said. His fingers tapped against the wood at a frustrated pace. “I have been a man of the Company for many years. You were not even conceived in the womb of your lady mother when I was elected as Captain-General. In this line of work, one begins to know when an investment has been wasted. The ships are lost, Arya Stark, and so would you if you were on them.”

Somehow in that moment, Myles Toyne reminded her of Mother. _Her lectures lasted for hours._ “Do you have a point, Myles Toyne? Or do you want to see how well a girl of the North can hold her wine?”

That forced a smile from him. His teeth were cracked and crooked. “You have a bold mouth, did anyone tell you a that?”

“A few.”

“Did anyone tell you that it will get you in trouble?”

“More than a few. Wine?”

He chuckled as he leaned across the table and filled her cup. “I could spare another ship. We cannot be blind. A blind army is a dead army, and I can’t imagine an armada is much different.”

That sounded like something Father would say. “Then send another ship.”

“With you on it, is that what you are saying?”

“We are moving too slowly.”

“We are being cautious. The entire Company rests on the success of this mission.”

“But Daenerys could die. Jon could die!” Arya had not realized she had sprung to her feet until she heard the sound of her chair tumbling behind her. “What is the point of all this, if they are dead?” Father’s head was held up by Ser Ilyn Payne, and the crowd has cheered. Arya closed her eyes. _A wolf does not cry. The Starks are brave._

She heard the uneven taps of Toyne’s fingers. The gentle groans of the ship moaned around her. “It is dangerous what you want to do.”

“But I want to do it,” she said. She looked at the Captain-General, as sure as Robb would in the face of his enemies. “You know I have to. One ship is faster than a fleet. I escaped King’s Landing on my own. I made it to Myr all by myself, survived there on my own with no one to guide me.”

“If I lose you, that is a blow to our cause. Aegon needs the North. You and your brother are the key.”

“Then you won’t lose me,” she said. “Besides, you told me you would only shed a tear if I died.”

Myles Toyne turned his head from her. “Aye, that’s true. Aegon would scream bloody awful, and Connington would call me a fool for letting you slip through our fingers like that. The domain of your family is too important, Arya Stark. But Daenerys Targaryen is even more so. Aegon coming to her rescue may not be enough. Her brother and the Company has a…history.”

Arya scrunched her nose. “What kind of history?”

“Viserys came to us in Tyr, to hire our services. We refused him.”

“Why? You’re serving Aegon now.”

“Precisely. That’s why we refused Viserys Targaryen. We would see Rhaegar’s son on the Iron Throne, not his brother. Besides, even then I could see that the boy was…” He took in a breath. “He was the Mad King’s son, not Rhaegar’s brother.”

“Mad,” Arya said. “Just like his father?”

The Captain-General nodded. “Just like his father. Daenerys will not be too pleased to see us. She needs encouragement.”

Arya put the glass down. She didn’t want to break it. Her fingers tightened into a fist. “And I’m the encouragement? Jon’s sister will speak to Daenerys, and see that she aligns with you?”

Myles Toyne looked uncomfortable. Arya had never seen the man be anything but stone. “Yes,” he said in half a whisper. “I want to be honest with you, Arya Stark. Hiding our intentions won’t help us.”

“Then do better than that. Put me on a ship. Let me part of the scouting party. I could speak—“

“No,” he said.

“You can’t—“

Myles Toyne rose. His leaned on the table, his fists pressed into the wood. “I can’t, you say. I am the Captain-General of this company. I command here, Arya Stark. I don’t know what that means to you Northmen, but that has meaning here. This company is the only reason your brother has even a slither of a chance of making out of this with his life. When you approach Daenerys Targaryen, it will be under the banner of the Golden Company. The golden skull of all the Captain-Generals that came before me will be watching as you persuade your brother to align Daenerys Targaryen with our cause. And when that happens, your family is safe. You will _not_ be part of the new scouting party. I place too much value on your life.”

Arya could feel something hot burn through her blood. “And if I refuse? If I say that you are Daenerys’ enemy, and she needs to oppose with every will she possesses?”

The eyes of the Blackheart were a dim blue, like a storm about to brew over Winterfell. “Do not test me on that, Arya Stark. So long as you sail with my company, you will obey my commands. I have killed girls younger than you. I have heard the death rattles of children. Do not test me.”

 

**THE WOLF IN THE PITS**

 

When Terzac vo Hrasher’s son and heir, Alezek walked onto the yard, Jon was paired with Saethor. “The weight is all wrong!” he grunted as he swung the wooden axe. True to his word, the man swung too far, and as Jon stepped out of the arc, Saethor hit nothing but air. Jon almost wanted to say that the Alashant had set up Saethor to fail, making him train with a mock weapon that had nothing in common with an actual axe. But the house of Hrasher was an estate full of businessmen, if nothing else. It would not make sense to buy men, to feed and train them, for the sole purpose of killing them.

Jon knew that the others were watching. He had told them to avoid doing that. “Focus on the man in front of you, because he will quicker kill you than the one behind you.” Perhaps they thought that by watching him, they would know how to beat him. They were not wrong, but they also wouldn’t get any better just by looking. They had to learn how to fight before they could learn how to win.

 He had to admit, they were getting better. They had the same faults as before, but their strengths were shining. Iorwen was hitting faster, Saethor was getting more unpredictable, and Horeah was a beast with axe in hand. But Jon had hunted beasts before, and try as the Norvosi might, he was no contest.

His wooden sword slapped Horeah on the head. “Dammit Andal!” He made for another swing, but Jon stepped out of the way. Horeah made a wide arc, a downward cut, and a strike with the handle – Jon dodged them all. “How are you so bloody fast?” The man was as red as a berry, which was saying something. His skin was like bronze when he wasn’t flustered.

“It’s all I have,” Jon said with sword raised. “I am not as strong as you or Iorwen, but I am quick. I’m sturdy, but not strong. And a man who cannot be hit cannot be killed.” He licked his lips. “Again?”

“Hells take you,” he growled before he went back to it. He swung four more times. Jon would slip past them, or knock them away, but Horeah could never hit the mark. When Jon slapped him on the head, Horeah threw his axe down in frustration. “If it wasn’t for that fucking sword, I could hit you!”

Jon tossed his sword away.

“Andal—“

“You said I was nothing without my sword.”

“Andal,” he nervously said, “that was not—“

“Pick up your axe and hit me.”

“Jon—“

“I said hit me Horeah!” The others were watching now, but he didn’t care. “You said you could hit me, so hit me! Or are Norvosi’s words for shit?”

“Oh, fuck me.” Horeah ripped his axe off from the ground. “Fuck you!” Jon lost count of the amount of swings by Horeah, but Jon dodged them all. It took only a slap to the cheek and a kick behind the knees for him to end it.

When he was towering over him, Jon said, “A man is more than his weapon, Horeah.” He offered Horeah the hand. The Norvosi hesitated, for half of a moment, before he grabbed Jon by the wrist.

“BLOODSWORNE!” The Alashant’s voice roared over the yard. “Show respect for one of the Masters!” Jon turned and saw Alezek vo Hrasher make his way across the yard. The Alashant honored him with a bowed head. “What brings you to the yard, Master?” Jon could not recall a time when either father or son had ever walked the sands. Observed from above in their balcony, as they would sip on wine and stuffing themselves with grapes. But they had never observed their slaves so close and familiar.

Until now, as Alezek stood there with an amused smile on his perfumed face, taking in the Alashant’s display. “I wanted to see them for myself. How much longer until the Proving, three nights?”

“You are not wrong, Master.”

“Then in a few days they will be dead for grass. Gods have mercy, it is hot. Alieken, wave faster.” A thin slave began to put more effort into fanning the young master. “I am particularly interested in the Andal. Jon, is that his name?”

“It is, Master.”

“Fetch him for me. Jon, what a base name. Those Westerosi are a plain race.”

The Alashant shouted out the command, and Jon made his way. He did not bow his head or go to his knees, which produced a frown from the Alashant. Alezek vo Hrasher, however, did not seem to mind. There was a soft glow in his brown eyes as he surveyed Jon. “You have been through battles, Andal. What can you say, about the men that tried to kill you?”

“That they tried, while I did not.”

“Well said,” the Ghiscari smiled. “Alashant, the Andal seems to be given his fellow recruits instruction.”

“He is welcome to it, so long as he does not interfere when I give commands.”

“And is he capable?” Terzac vo Hrasher smiled. “As a leader of men?”

The Alashant’s eyes were cool. “He is capable.”

“And as a warrior?”

“More than capable,” the Alashant said with a slimmer of a smile.

“Then I would see it, in the same way that you do. Make a contest of it.”

“At once, Master. Saethor! You will be paired with—“

“I said a contest, Alashant.”

The Alashant understood his meaning. “Iorwen! Saethor! You will be paired with the Andal!”

“And what of the Norvosi?”

The Alashant turned his head. “He was just paired with Jon. The Norvosi was bested, Master.”

“But he can fight. Andal, have you ever fought three at once?”

“I have. And won.”

His eyes glowed. “A feat I would see remade. Alashant, three on the Andal. They must learn to work in cohesion, and Jon could surely use the practice of being overwhelmed. We could use that to our advantage in the games.”

“Well said,” the Alashant said, although Jon could see the frustration in the man’s eyes. “Jon, you will be paired against these three. Saethor, Iorwen, Horeah, take positions.”

They did as commanded, but Jon could see the apprehension in Iorwen’s eyes. “Are you ready for this, Andal?”

“Are you?” Jon didn’t give him the moment to respond. Iorwen barely got his wooden sword up in time to block Jon’s strike. Jon knew he would never win if he fought cleanly, and the others would not put up a poor show in front of the Master’s son. He heard the sands crunch beneath Saethor’s boot as he came up behind Jon. He gave another strike that sent echoes of pain down Iorwen’s shoulder before he turned. Saethor greeted him with a thrust to the head, and Jon barely had the time to whack the thick wooden rod away. Jon gave three sure strikes against Saethor, who lost a little of his ground each time. Jon would have pressed but he heard Horeah heave as he lifted his mock axe for a swing.

 _Horeah first._ Jon twisted away from the axe. He rolled beneath the strike and thrusted his sword into Horeah’s gut. The wind was pushed out of him, and the moment Jon twisted to his feet he sent another strike to the back of Horeah’s knee. That sent him to the ground, face first.

Iorwen made no secret that he meant to send Jon flying. He was already at Jon’s side, and if he landed a hit on Jon’s head, he would be done. If. He brought his mock sword up to block the blow, but that sent ripples of pain echoing down his fingers. Jon did his best to ignore it as he went on the offensive, giving Iorwen more than he gave. Iorwen was all force and might, but he had nothing for when he was pressed. Jon had said so a thousand times, and he used that to best him just as much. By the fifth strike, Jon saw his opening and rang Iorwen’s head like a bell. That sent the Tyroshi falling to his knees.  

Saethor was on him, Jon knew. The Qohorik could control his breathing, and gave no sign that he was coming, but Jon knew he would not be so stupid as to accept a one on one. But Jon was quicker to dispatch Iorwen than Saethor was to arrive. The spear thrust hit him in the shoulder, and Jon could feel his flesh crush on his bones. If it was a spearhead, instead of a blunted stick, Jon doubted he would have been able to lift his arm to strike back at Saethor. The pain was rushing all over him, though, and that made his next swing sloppy and allowed Saethor to weave away from it.

He avoided Jon once, but not twice. Jon gritted on his teeth as he brought his sword down on the shaft of the spear. Saethor twirled the spear, aimed to strike at Jon in the head, but Jon raised his free hand. He would be all bruises and welts by morning, but it kept Saethor on the disadvantage. Jon rushed in, pain ebbing through his sword fingers, and whacked Saethor right on the shoulder. He was rewarded with a cry of pain, and a fierce look in the Qohorik’s eyes. _Good. You are stupid when angry._ Saethor was the most careful of the newbloods, as well as the most careless and desperate when he sees defeat closing in.

Jon wouldn’t give him time to even consider that defeat. Saethor took a step back, but Jon took two steps forward and bit low with his sword.  He only got out half of a yell before Jon hit wacked him in the back, forcing Saethor to tumble for a step, two steps, before he fell onto his hands. “Dammit, I yield!” Saethor raised up the two fingers of defeat. “I yield!”

Jon leaned on his sword. As he allowed the rush of battle to ebb away, he could feel the aches begin to wash over him. No doubt he would be feeling all the bruises in the morning – and the morning after that. Terzac vo Hrasher was grinning from ear to ear. “Now that is a marvel! I haven’t seen any trounce three opponents since…well, not since Yarkaz himself.”

“The Andal is capable, as I said.”

“More than capable, I would say. Jon of the Andals, who trained you?”

Ser Rodrik, he wanted to say, who was the Master-at-Arms of Winterfell. But that would do no good here. If they knew of whom his father was, perhaps they would send word back to Westeros, and deny Jon the right of tearing out Bloodbeard’s throat. Jon had often dreamed of choking the life out of him, and he wanted that dream to be a reality. In truth, it was a mistake to have even said that Jon was his name, but that was a common enough name in the North. No-Eyes had told him that the best way to sell a lie was to say just enough of the truth.

“My father.” He had said as such to Terzac vo Hrasher, and in some ways he was not wrong. It was Father that commanded Ser Rodrik to see that he was trained in sword and lance, that Maester Luwin saw to his letters and history.

Terzac smiled in satisfaction. “I look forward to your Proving, Andal. My father sees a new titan in you. I wonder how you will fare against one that has already earned the title?”

“I imagine I will win.”

The Ghiscari turned and walked off the yard. “I imagine you just might!”

Jon felt the strength in his knees flee from him, and he fell onto the sands. The Alashant caught him at the shoulder. “Easy Andal, easy. Three on one is never easy, no matter who trained you. Who was your Father?”

“A man,” he groaned.

“Be that way. Iorwen, you got the less of it. See Jon to the baths.”

Iorwen struggled to his feet. “The Andal bashed my head!”

“Respect your Alashant.” There was a cold fire in his golden eyes. “If I speak, you obey. Would you like to taste my whip, to have a scar along with your ringing head?” There was no argument after that, and Iorwen helped Jon off to the baths. He could hear the Alashant roaring out commands

“Did you really need to hit me so hard, Jon?” Once they were beneath the shade of the manor, Jon found he did not need to rely on Iorwen so much. Still, every step was accompanied with a nagging pain. “It feels like the three bells of Norvos are in my head right now.”

Jon smiled. “The Master’s son was right there.”

“True that. Still Jon, you could afford to be a little kinder next time.”

Jon sighed, and closed his eyes, allowed the darkness to be a cool calm against the small agonies that echoed over him. The waters of the bath would help, but only time would heal the bruises away. And that would be a long time coming. Jon was not looking forward to how ghastly his skin would look in the morning. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself drawn to the brands that dominated Iorwen’s arms. “How many?” The Tyroshi looked at Jon. “Masters. You have plenty of brands on your arms.”

“Not always a master. Sometimes I would be sent to one of the Free Cities. I was in Lys for a time. You see the arrow, near my wrist?  This was my first mark, when I was enslaved in Yunkai.”

“An arrow for Yunkai? Why’s that?”

“They are known for their pleasure slaves.”

It took Jon a minute for the realization to hit. “Oh.” Iorwen laughed, low and hardy, and he tightened his grip on Jon. “Why a brand? As a....pleasure slave, shouldn’t you be—“

“Pretty? Andal, are you saying I am not beautiful?” Iorwen smiled in a pretty way, and Jon thought that Sansa would have been endeared to the sight. The Tyroshi was covered in scars and brands, but he could not hide what he once was.  “So long as I sucked cock, the Masters were content to not scar my skin. But tear off one cock with my teeth, and I have to wear a brand. Terribly fickle, those Masters.”

“I imagine so.” Jon braced himself for the steps that led into the tunnels below. They weren’t deep, but Jon’s feet still felt clumsy. “So why did you do it?”

Iorwen didn’t say anything until they had cleared the stairs. “The man was from Lys. He had the silver hair for it, at least. He wanted something that he could not get back home.”

“I thought Lys was known for their pleasure slaves?”

“So they are, as well as how they take care of them. Not so in Yunkai. I had someone who was more than just a friend. I knew her when we were just children. Gave each other advice for the bed. Being forced to give each other our maidenhead would do that, I suppose.”

“And is she still alive? Your friend?”

“I wouldn’t call it that, not after what Naessro Tagare of Lys did to her.” Iorwen licked at his lips. “I simply returned the favor, was all. So I was sent into the Pits. The Masters wanted me dead. Well, I resolved to live. That’s why my arms are so pretty, Andal. I have been in many cities, and I have had many masters, and they have all made their mark on me.”

“But none on your face.”

“That would be a shame. Say one thing of Iorwen, say that he has a pretty face.”

“None will ever say that of you.” Iorwen broke out into a laugh, and Jon joined him. Their laughs echoed down into the halls, leading them to the pool. Iorwen half-pushed, half-led Jon into the waters. As the waters washed over him, Jon found that his bones didn’t ache nearly as much as they used to. He didn’t even hear Iorwen’s jape before he left.

Jon sunk into the pool, up until the waters were up to his nose. The coolness of the waters were rubbing into his bones, his fingers, the blades of his shoulder, the point of his elbows. His strength was leaving him. Jon wanted to close his eyes, but he managed to keep them open just enough that he could see.

“Andal.” He heard a voice, low and hoarse. He saw Arekor’s form emerge from around the corner. Whenever a piece of equipment was required – a cup of water, training swords – Arekor would scramble to retrieve it. “I saw you today, in the yard.”

“Many did.” Arekor was a figure just as imposing as worth of pity. His left arm was a withered thing, small and malformed. His right, was the exact opposite. It was a massive display of muscles and raw strength. Jon wondered if he had ever killed a man with just his one arm. One of his eyes was blind, bulging and watery, while the other was a deep lilac. “What do you need, Arekor?” With a groan, he raised his head from beneath the pool.

“I saw you fighting. I saw how you would train them, to be more than they are. To be Bloodsworne.” Arekor drew closer. Jon could see his hair was silvery, like pale straw. “Teach me to be more than I am.”

“A man that is safe,” Jon said. “What harm befalls you in this manse?”

“I can fight,” Arekor insisted. “I want to fight!” He quickly wiped away the spit that dribbled from his thick lips. “I want to be more than I am. You trained them. Why not me?”

 _Because your back is hunched, because you cannot lift a shield._ “The last thing I need is to displease the Alashant.”

“You won’t,” Arekor said. “Not if you are Bloodsworne. You are beyond being a mere slave in the eyes of the Master.”

Jon was about to reject Arekor again, more firmly this time. But then an idea came to his mind. “Arekor, you attend to Master Terzac, do you not?”

“He summons me often, to fetch him wine. Or to see to his needs.”

“And does he often speak of business?”

“He does,” Arekor said reluctantly. “I am just a slave. It matters not if I am there or not.”

 _Not to me._ “Arekor, I do not plan on living out my days in this house. I want to be free again. And the Master says if I earn it, he will free me of my bondage. But I need to know what he truly thinks. I need eyes and ears in the estate.”

“You want me to spy.”

“I want you to listen, and to tell me what you hear. If you can promise me that, then I will do as you ask. I will train you, I will help you earn the mark. I can help you become Bloodsworne. Do we have an agreement?”

Arekor’s one good eye looked at Jon. “Yes, Andal. We have an agreement.”

 

**THE MOTHER OF DRAGONS  
**

 

From the grass crested ridge, Daenerys looked down on Astapor. She could see the black pyramids of the Masters rise above the red city. _Brick and blood made up Astapor, brick and blood her people_. Dany could not keep the rhyme from ringing in her head. Jon was in there. She could not keep herself from thinking of him. On the colder nights, as she cradled their son in blankets of wool, she thought of what it would be like to have him wrap himself around her. She dreamt of him, frequently and often, but his face was always cast in shadows.

It had been a month and some days since the comet raced across the sky. She could see it still, from atop the mount, but Dany had to admit it looked faded now. Could Jon see it from below, chained and bonded in Astapor? _Gods, if you hear me, give him strength. Let Jon live to hold his son._ She wondered if it was some cruel joke by them – to give her dragons, but to make them too weak to save Jon. That she would command Jon not to kill Khal Drogo, so he would live to see his son, only for him to be taken from her regardless. That she was the heir to the Iron Throne, and her people would deny her.

That her advisors gave counsel to the same man that she reviled with every breath she took. They all advised on the same thing: they could not liberate Jon from Astapor. They knew not the layout, they would have been discovered on sight, the Unsullied were too many, too strong. A thousand reasons, all of them sound, and all of them that kept her from being united with Jon.

She heard the sounds of stick tapping against the stone. “Khaleesi,” No-Eyes bowed in his approach. “Know that if one strays too close to an edge, one is likely to fall.”

“I will not be falling,” she said as she turned. “Not today, and not tomorrow.”

“Know also that a hungry heart is likely to grasp for air, when a succulent dish is around the corner.”

“Different words, same meaning.” She turned her head, to look down on Astapor. “How long am I supposed to wait, while Jon is flogged and collared?”

“As long as needed, Khaleesi. Every day you say you will wait, and every day you lie.”

“Who are you to say I lie?” she snapped.

But No-Eyes only shook his head and smiled. “By the weight of your steps, despite the relatively soft ground we stand on. By the way you hold the Khalakka, with the weight that something must be done. By how often you glance towards Astapor.” He took a few more steps closer. “You want the Andal returned to you. None fault you for that. Non desire the father of the Khalakka to be chained.”

 _Not all find the thought so grievous._ “We can’t go to Astapor. We can’t stay on this mountain. We are digging the caves dry of the roots, and we are eating away at the mountain goats. And by the insistence of my bloodriders, I cannot go east into Ghis.”

“Know that only death awaits those in the realm of ghosts. It is known.”

“It is known,” she groaned. She knew what was known to her. The resources the mountain had provided were being eaten away. Her men grumbled of inaction, while the women had a fearful look in their eyes. The Rams had sworn to protect her, but such promises were made in the grandeur of the dragons. How long before the Lhazareen decided to flock towards greener pastures?

And how long before her dragons were discovered? A month past they were hatchlings, no larger than the size of a well fed cat. Now they were the size of a small dog, and could look at Ghost in his crimson eyes if they stood on their hind legs. Her dragons were eating through what meat they could gather, but they were growing fast. But not fast enough for her liking. If they were great and mighty, she could lay waste to Astapor and lift Jon from the rubble.

But they were still weak, and needed her to protect them. _How can I protect the dragons and my son, if I cannot even protect myself?_ If the Masters learned of her presence and sent the Unsullied, she was done for. Her khalasar would be ridden down, her bloodriders would die for her, and Daemon would either be killed or raised as a slave. The Targaryen dream would end as being slaves to Astapor, and Daenerys would not suffer that irony.

“Quaithe says I should head into the ruins of Ghis. She tells me there are secrets guarded in the shadows. She tells me I will find my way.”

No-Eyes tightened the grip on his staff. “I would take the counsel from one such as her well salted.”

“Because she hides behind a mask?”

“Because she was the one to advise Khal Drogo to marry you. At the time, I thought little of it. Some of his ko grumbled, but Drogo indulged her. His wants for a great new dynasty ran deep, Khaleesi. And as your marriage passed, my suspicions deepened.”

“Of what?”

“That she wanted you.” He tapped his stick against the earth. “Here. In this place. Of all of Drogo’s advisors, the Shadowbinder was the only one that raised no protest to Jon Snow.”

Dany remembered the peach. “She is my friend. A most dangerous friend.”

“What use of friends if they only provide you danger?”

“The same could be said of my dragons.” No-Eyes followed her as she made her way back to the camp. “Right now they are a danger, but in time they will secure me the throne of my father.”

“A shadowbinder is no dragon,” No-Eyes cautioned. “Know that shadows only hides secrets, not truths. You will get no answers from her.” He wasn’t wrong. Every time Quaithe drew herself towards Daenerys, she was provided only with riddles. _Seek out the shadow. West is east, and south is north._ But something about Quaithe told Dany that she had to trust her. She had few allies. She could not turn away any that came to her willingly.

“You would have me turn her away?”

“Turn away a shadowbinder?” The priest frowned. “Those of Asshai go where they please.”

“Drogo sent Quaithe away.”

No-Eyes turned to her, and even from behind his blindfold, he gave her a knowing look. “Khaleesi, you don’t truly believe that Quaithe left because of Drogo’s will?”

She found Ser Jorah waiting outside her cave. His dothraki vest was well worn, with a thick layer of dust and dirt coating it. She could see the thick mane of dark hair that coated his chest. “Your Grace,” he said with respect.

“Ser Jorah.” It sounded colder than she meant. He was the first of her Queensguard, but Dany could never imagine she could forget that he had forsaken Jon. “You would have words?” Ser Jorah was silent. “Alone?”

“Alone,” he insisted. No-Eyes tapped his stick against the rock and walked away. She led Jorah Mormont into her cave. Her son was nestled on a pile of silk pillows, sucking on a wooden ram carved by one of the Lhazareen. “How long do you intend to linger here?”

 _I do not know. I cannot go forward, and I cannot retreat._ “For as long as needed.” She bent to pick up Daemon. As she cradled him in her arms, she looked into his face and saw so much of Jon. “There is death if I go to Astapor. If I go east I will find only ghosts in the shadow.”

“There are ghosts wherever we go. If we stay here, one day all nourishment will fade. This mountain is a respite.”

She gave him a hard look. “I know that, Jorah Mormont. I have not forgotten what it in Astapor.” She sighed. “You know what haunts me. I would now what haunts you.”

He grew very still. “Daenerys-“

“Your Queen,” she said harshly, “has given you a command.”

For a time, Ser Jorah said nothing. “Her name was Lynesse Hightower.” And in that moment, his broad face became very small. “It was after I was knighted by King Robert on the shores of Pyke. There was a great tourney held in Lannisport, to honor his victory over the Greyjoy Rebellion. My first wife, Annell Glover, had passed a few years before. I had no interest in finding another wife just yet. I had discovered I rather enjoyed being the lone lord of Bear Island. But then I saw her, sitting in the stands. And she looked…”

“Like what, Ser Jorah?”

“Why,” he said with hesitation, “Your Grace, she looked so much like you.” _He loves me._ The realization hit her. His gaze had lingered on her as of late. She had thought that perhaps it was out of sheer wonder at what had happened. He had lingered close to both her and Daemon, and his sword was never too far from his side. Dany had thought that he was just being protective of his queen and her son. It was more than devotion that drove Ser Jorah. Desire was why he had left her and Jon to their fates…and why he ultimately returned. She should hate him. She should send him from her sight forever. But Ser Jorah also gave her the first gift from home she ever received, and he was always there to provide council to her. He was the first of her Queensguard. How many knights of the Kingsguard had loved the princesses or queens that they were sworn to protect? _Aemon the Dragonknight loved his sister Naerys._

“I won the tourney, and in doing so I won her as well. I brought my new wife with me back to Bear Island, and I thought at first Lynesse had found some happiness in the solitude of my hall. It wasn’t the bustle of Oldtown, from where the Hightowers ruled. I lived for her smiles, Your Grace. I soon realized Lynesse did not find comfort in the quiet and the peace of Bear Island.”

“How did that bring you to here?”

And Ser Jorah looked at her. “With gifts. The Mormonts are a humble house, Your Grace. I spent what I could to appease my wife. Volantene pearls, cloaks of Myrish silk, gloves lined with the finest vair. But my cousin Jaroh had always questioned me. Always, even before Lynesse, before the extravagance. One day he went too far.” Jorah Mormont clenched at his lips. “He said that my Hightower whore would be the end of our house. Something came over me, a beast that I only knew when a blade was in my hand. I killed him.” And Ser Jorah did not so much look at her as he did over and around her…anything to avoid her gaze. “I knew that Lord Eddard would come for me. Kinslayers are cursed in the eyes of gods and men. It didn’t matter that Jaroh insulted me time after time, it didn’t matter that he insulted my honor. My reputation was damned regardless of what I did.”

“So you fled.”

“So we fled,” Jorah said. “I still had some wealth. I used it to buy my wife an apartment in Lys. But that only lasted for half a year. I had to become a sellsword to sustain us. There was a war between Braavos and Volantis. The Volantenes offered more…it would have sustained us for years. The Braavosi contract was pennies in comparison But, Your Grace…” And he looked at her, firmly in the eye. “I am a son of the North. Slavery is wrong. No man or woman should ever be in bondage. I fought for Braavos. When I returned to Lys, my wife was gone. She had moved in with the merchant prince Tregar Ormollen. For years and years, I wandered, until I heard of the Targaryens that were housed in the estate of Illyrio Mopatis.”

“And you swore your sword to my brother.” _You knew who he was when you pledged yourself._ “Why? My brother must have had surely disappointed you when you first met him.”

“He did, Your Grace. I hoped he would be Rhaegar come again, a man worth fighting for, worth believing in. I should have turned away, but a man must believe in something. I wandered without meaning for years. I swore my sword to House Targaryen despite everything that your brother was. A man needs purpose, or he is just a shell.”

“And now I am House Targaryen?” _You killed Viserys at my command._ “You are sworn to me?”

Jorah Mormont became very firm. “Yes, Your Grace. Rip your life from me if you wish it. But I serve you in all things.”

“Why?” she demanded of him. “I am not Viserys, but I am also not Rhaegar. I want to liberate Jon from Astapor, despite how I have less than a hundred capable men to my name. Is that not madness?”

“No, My Queen. You are wrong – you are not less than your brothers. You are the Mother of Dragons.”

He left her soon after. _I am the Mother of Dragons_. She remembered the flames that surrounded her, the black plumes of smoke that rose around her. _Sweet Doreah, you put your faith in me before I had the right to it._ She would not forget her, Dany swore to herself. But in the month that passed since, Dany could only struggle to recall Doreah’s face. She remembered the golden strands of hair and the brilliant smile…but the small details were fading. _Doreah was given to the fire, and that gave me the dragons. That gave me my son. My Dameon._

She saw Agerion flap his wings as he drew closer to her. Her black and crimson was always the largest of her dragons. He could rest and curl around her neck in comfort, while Visgar and Rhaexes would sink their claws into her flesh. It had reached a point where Tareoh Neh Khaluk had fashioned a leather shoulder piece for her to wear. “Come Agerion,” and the dragon grew closer. _One brother to another_.

Agerion looked at her son, his golden eyes beaming.

Then he snarled and drew his teeth.

Dany’s heart stopped. She pulled and scrambled away from Agerion, her son clutched tight to her chest as he cried, and the dragon flew away to the other side of the cave. He curled himself onto a large rock. Dany felt her lips quiver and shake. She looked at her son, desperate, and saw no cuts. She looked back to Agerion, and he was looking at her. He was looking at her son.

“Power is flame, and dragons are fire made flesh.” Dany turned and saw Quaithe enter. Her dark robe seemed to eat in the sunlight.

Dany could taste something, rancid and terrible. “He threatened my son. Agerion, he snarled at him. He-“

“He is a dragon. Young as he is, he knows what he is.” Quaithe tilted her head. “Did you imagine them siblings? You did not push them out of your womb, Stormborn. Only your son that you cradle in your arms.”

She knew that, of course. But she remembered the stories that Viserys had told her, of the dragonlords of Valyria. She thought that, perhaps, her dragons would accept her son when he came of age. If she failed, her son would be like Aegon come again, atop his dragon and bring forth fire and prosperity to Westeros. _That was a dream. Dreams will not bring me to the Red Keep._

“You linger in this place. Why?”

“Because, I cannot go forward, and I cannot go back.”

“Travel to the ruins of Ghis,” Quaithe said. “Go there and find answers in the shadows.”

“What will I find there, amongst the dead?”

“More than what you have here. This mountain is a slow death, Daenerys. Astapor is a quick one. Go to Ghis, and you will either be consumed or prosper.”

“Will you be there to guide me, Quaithe of the Shadows?”

For a moment, Dany saw that the eyes of the Shadowbinder shine behind her mask. “As much as needed.”

 

**THE PIG OF HORN HILL**

 

Maester Aemon clicked his tongue as he considered his thoughts. “The Lord Commander may prefer a census on the builders at Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower. Now that our lowly smith has become Lord Commander, we need a capable men to mend the arms.” Aemon tapped at the arms of his chair. “Oh, Samwell, also fetch for him the master key to the King’s Tower. He’ll be needing the extra rooms, I believe.”

Sam’s hands were covered in books, scrolls and letters. A piece of paper was half hanging from his fingers as he stepped his way towards the room. Using his chin to pin the books to his chest, Sam wiggled his fat fingers towards the curled census. “Samwell, will you manage all that?” The Maester was facing the opposite direction from him. If he wasn’t blind, Sam would have thought that Maester Aemon was gazing out the window.

His fingers gripped tightly around the parchment. “Yes, Maester,” he squeaked. _My fingers feel like they are going to fall off._

“Very good,” the Maester said in a satisfying tone. “We must do all we can to help Donal Noye adjust to his new position.”

Sam made his way with careful steps. “Isn’t it Lord Commander Noye, now?”

The Maester considered his words. “Yes,” he said, “it _is_ Lord Commander Noye now. That will take some getting used to. A blacksmith to defend the wall.” He almost chirped. “Be on your way, Samwell. The Lord Commander is surely waiting on you.”

“Yes, Maester Aemon,” Samwell groaned as he flicked the knob of the door. As soon as he made his way up the steps, the stones of the vault groaned against the brisk wind. _It’s getting colder._ When he first arrived at the Wall, the cold chilled him down to the bones, but now the chill was grabbing hold at him. No matter how heavy the furs Sam would wear, his fingers always shivered.

The yard was not a filled as it could have been. Some days Sam would awaken to the clanging of steel as Ser Allister Thorne drilled the recruits. But in the days since the choosing, the new Lord Commander had increased patrols on the Wall. But not beyond that, despite the protests from Thoren Smallwood. “We are blind Thoren, that is true,” Sam had heard the Lord Commander say. “But better blind than dead, which is what will happen to any Ranger I send out.” The wind was especially strong as Sam walked across the balconies. He held the papers even closer to his chest.

Sam heard the winch elevator clatter and groan as it slugged down the Wall. No doubt a few Brothers were coming back from their watch. He wondered if he would see Grenn, or Pyp, or any of the others. He had hardly seen hair or sight of them. Always they were on the Wall, or sleeping, and when they weren’t Maester Aemon was sending Sam on some duty.

He had not even the time to go into the library anymore. For all his weeks of reading and searching for answers, Sam could not say he was any wiser. But something still compelled Sam that something was in the library, with the answer he was looking for.

The King’s Tower loomed. It was a sturdy turret, round at its base and sealed with a sturdy oak door. Sam had thought how he was meant to open it with his hands full of books up to his chin, but then he saw Edd standing at the door. “Edd,” Sam said. “Could you get the door? The Lord Commander asked for me.”

“Hmm,” he said, as his gloved fingers tightened. “The Lord Commander may not be so keen, when he sees what you are bringing.”

“Edd,” Sam said, a little more stern. His fingers were becoming cramped beneath the weight. “Books are not feather pillows.”

“Oh, what I’d do for a feather pillow.” Dolorous Edd pulled on the rings of the door. “Or a blanket of feathers. Or even a woman with feathers. I’d take anything with feathers over the straws they give us to sleep on.”

Sam wasn’t inclined to indulge Edd in his droll. The King’s Tower was tall, and when Sam looked up at the flight of wooden stairs that spiraled up the many floors, he gulped deeply. He took a step on the stair, and he heard the wood creak. “Samwell Tarly?” He turned, his chin holding the books and scrolls steady, and Lord Commander Noye stepped out from a room. He was dressed in black furs. Sam could not think he ever saw Donal Noye in anything but his smith apron and a thick coat. “I would ask what took you so long, but I think I see now. Quick, before you spill it all over the floor.”

It wasn’t the floor the spilled it over, but all over the Lord Commander’s desk. He scratched at his chin. “Did you run into Ser Alliser on your way out?”

“No, My Lord.”

Donal Noye chewed on his lip. Then he grunted. “Good thing. I put him in a foul mood. He took up the cause of Smallwood and isn’t happy I gave him the same answer.” The Lord Commander picked up a book and looked at the binding. “What’s this say?”

“My Lord, that is Maester Wyllis’ account of the three years he spent in Hardhome.”

The Lord Commander laid the book on the desk. “I’m no lord, I’m a…well, I guess I am a lord now.” He did not look pleased with the revelation. “I imagine Maester Aemon sent you to read me some letters.”

“He did, Lord Commander,” Sam coughed. Donal leaned into a chair, his head resting on his one arm. Sam pulled free a letter that was snugged tight between a few tomes. “This is from Yoren.”

The Lord Commander perked up. “The wandering crow,” he said with a slim smile. “What does he have to say?”

“Well,” Sam spurted, “My Lord, it is not Yoren _precisely_ , it says here, right at the, top, that it was Maester Luwin that wrote it. He’s Winterfell’s maester, see…”

“On with it, Samwell.”

“Yes, of course.” Sam sucked on his teeth. “He mentions how he left King’s Landing with the bulk of their prisoners, and three unsavory sorts that would need to be caged. One of them has sharp…teeth…”

The Lord Commander rubbed at his chin. “We have a cook at Eastwatch with branded stars all over his arms, for every woman he raped. We can handle a man with pointed teeth.” He looked at Sam. “On with it.”

He nodded. “King’s Landing…prisoners…sharp teeth…” He raced through the letter. “Ah! Says here he will leave after a good few days. Prince Brandon was very gracious.”

“The Starks usually are. Go on.”

“Well, that’s it, Lord Commander. There’s nothing else to read.”

Donal Noye furrowed his brows. “Well, it will take a few weeks for them to arrive from Winterfell. When did the raven arrive?”

Sam looked at the Lord Commander. “Pardon?”

“When did the raven from Winterfell arrive at Castle Black?” The Lord Commander gave Sam a pointed stare.

“I don’t…know, My Lord.”

Donal Noye rubbed his nose. “Crone give me patience. Yoren could be knocking on the gates of Castle Black and we wouldn’t even know it.”

“My Lord,” Samwell said with a pause. “There is a war going on. We should be thankful that Yoren arrived at Winterfell at all.”

“Maybe,” Donal breathed. “We need a new smith. Did I receive a census from Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower?” It took some time, but Sam was able to find the letters. At Donal’s command, he listed off the names, but the Lord Commander only frowned. “Miserable. Me being Lord Commander is going to be the death of the Watch if we can’t supply Castle Black with a smith worth half of his arsehole.” He tapped his fingers against _The History of the Lord Commanders of the Night’s Watch._ “What is this?” Sam said the name. “Why would Maester Aemon send me this?”

“Well, Lord Commander,” Sam said, “if you’ll let me, I could show you.” He considered for a moment before placing the book in Sam’s hand. His fingers flew through it until he found the page. “Ah, right here. Maester Aemon thought you would like to know that, you are not, in fact, the first common born to be elected Lord Commander.”

“Truly?”

“Ah, yes, My Lord. During the reign of King Maegor there was a Lysene pirate named Alesendro. He died in 46 AC.”

Donal Noye did not look as amused as Maester Aemon had predicted. “A Lysene pirate.”

“Yes, My Lord. But not noble born.”

The Lord Commander raised his bushy eyebrows. They looked like furry worms when he did so. “Good company for me to have, I suppose. What else do you need to read to me?” There was a substantial amount. Ser Denys Mallister had written about a number of abandoned villages his rangers discovered beyond the Wall, and Cotter Pyke of Eastwatch-by-the-sea has found mammoth prints in the snow. Ser Denys Mallister had also sent another letter asking for additional provisions, as a portion of their foodstock had spoiled. Cotter Pyke was in need of additional salt, to keep the decks of his ships from freezing. He had also—“

“Enough,” the Lord Commander demanded. “Enough of that, Tarly.” His voice sounded tired and heavy. “I need to be…” and he raised himself from his seat, and Sam saw an absent look in his eyes. “Doing something,” he sighed. Donal Noye looked down at his hand. “All my life, I lived by these fingers. For as long as I knew Mormont, I never saw him work with his. Except maybe to grip a sword. Too busy giving commands. I’ll need to give plenty of those, won’t I, Tarly?”

“I suppose so, My Lord.”

“Lord Commander Donal Noye.” He looked down at his tied up sleeve. “Tell me Samwell, has there ever been a Lord Commander with only a single arm?”

Sam licked his lips. “I’m sure there has, My Lord.”

“Probably you’re right,” he said. “Being a Lord Commander is a dangerous job. Likely someone has lot more than a hand.” He scratched at his neck. “If that is all Tarly-“

There was a knock on the door. “Lord Commander!” Mensin came in, his face covered in a poorly shaved beard. Sam could see clumps of curly hair linger on him. “Yoren has returned.”

“Best news I’ve heard all day. How many did he grab from the dungeons of the Red Keep?”

There was a thick redness around Mensin’s lips. He licked. “I know that look. I’ll see for myself. Get me my cloak.” The Lord Commander took a few steps towards the door, but then turned to Sam. “Come along Samwell. You can tell Maester Aemon about the new blood.” Sam followed in tentative steps.

He knew Yoren as soon as he saw him. The man had long, dark, filthy looking hair, and his beard looked all mottled. The man’s dark leather uniform was frayed at the bits, and Sam could see his crooked yellow teeth a league away. He voice was low and hoarse, but that didn’t stop him from yelling at the new recruits to unload the carriages. He could see a cage being dragged in by horses.

“Donal!” Yoren tightened his hand into a tight fist as he approached, his teeth clattering and his nose a bright pink. “I leave for half a year and the Lord Commander’s tower is a pile of shit and piss. And why aren’t you in an apron?” He paused. “Where’s the Lord Commander?”

“You’re looking at him.”

Yoren’s eyes went wide, and he covered his mouth. “Fuck me.” His lips went stern. “What happened?” The Lord Commander told him everything – from the attack of the living dead to how the tower burnt down, and to how he was chosen as Lord Commander. “Six months. Feels like ten years. The dead? That’s a cruel jape, Donal.”

“I wish it were. Six months is a long time for you Yoren.”

“Well, normally I don’t have to deal with a fucking civil war. Everyone thinks they’re a king these days. And you know what that means – right fucking mess. I’ve lost six.”

“Six?” Donal Noye spoke like the world had come undone. “In all the years I’ve known you, you only lost three. And wasn’t one of them because they ate a poisonous shroom?”

Yoren spat. “That’s war for you. Madness and fucking stupidity. Some of the Lannister men wanted to take one of my orphans. Told him to right fuck off with a dagger pointed at his balls. Course he came back later…with more men. That’s how I lost the six.”

“Well, it’s good you made it back at all, Yoren. You going to show me the new men?”

“Lord Commander,” Yoren said as he shook his head. “You do have the right of it. Well come on, before my balls freeze together.”

Sam could hear the neighing of horses and the braying of donkeys. Three wagons were dragged through the gates of Castle Black, although he only saw one filled with any supplies. The other two were empty and sparse. He saw a plump man in an apron lift a barrel from the wagon, and another with a bull’s helm hanging from his belts was making his way. There was a thin and pale looking boy with bits of mottled green skin that was reaching up from his neck. He stuck his hands in his armpits and shivered.

And the cage rattled. Sam could hear the shaking of chains and men growling and spitting. Sam made sure to keep far away. _The prisoner with the pointed teeth. He has to be in there_. The idea of a man like that becoming a sworn brother sent more shivers than the cold of the Wall.

He heard the heavy steps of Ser Alliser Thorne. “So these are the new summer bloods.”

“Don’t worry on that count, Thorne. The Wall will freeze that blood soon enough. Won’t be too long until they are just as sour as you.”

Ser Alliser glared at Yoren. “Not fast enough. They have names.”

“Course they have names,” Yoren said. “The one with the mottled skin is called Lommy Greenhands. Guess why.” Ser Alliser frowned. “The fat one is Hot Pie. His mother was a cook.”

“Good. The piggy can have a friend.” Sam looked towards Hot Pie. He was awkwardly holding a frying pan.

“And the one with the bull’s horn is Gendry. He was an apprentice to a smith on the Street of Steel.”

Donal Noye crossed his arms. “What happened?”

Yoren shrugged. “Didn’t want him no more. Not one to complain – always though the Wall could use another smith. Good fortune now that you went and became Lord Commander.”

“The cage.” Yoren and Ser Alliser looked to the Lord Commander. “Who’s in there?”

Yoren spat. “Men from the dark cells. The one without a nose is Rorge. He ran a fighting pit for orphans to kill each other. The one with the sharp teeth was one of his creations. They call him Biter, and is just like a mad dog. Don’t know what we can do with him, but we will figure something out.”

“Fetch him on the Wildlings,” the Lord Commander provided. “Who’s the other?”

“A man who calls himself Jaqen H’ghar. That red and white hair o’ his is much too pretty for my sake. I don’t know if that goes against the creed of the Night’s Watch, but we’ll see.”

“Why was he in the cells?” asked Ser Alliser.

Yoren scratched at his face. “Wish I knew. Not even Rennifer Longwaters would right say why. Never knew the gaoler to keep his trap shut, but, well, it is how it is. Worst thing I can say about him is that he is a Loranthi.”

Ser Alliser grunted. “What is a Loranthi doing all the way across the Sea?”

“Does it matter?” Yoren argued. “He’s with us now. Man’s a man. He is sure to remind us of that fact. That’s all he calls himself.”

“Calls himself what?” asked Donal Noye.

“A man,” Yoren grumbled. “A man requires a thirst,” he mocked. “A man deserves not to be among such company.” Yoren spat on the cold earth, and wiped the spittle with the back of his hand. “All from the Red Keep to Castle Black, all I heard was ‘a man this’ or ‘a man that’. If it weren’t for Longwaters, that’s what we’d call him. A man!”

If Yoren meant to jape, Donal Noye was having none of it. “If the worst thing about this Jaqen is that he has the speech of an addled fool, I’ll take him gladly. Yoren, get them ready.”

“I know my job, Lord Commander.”

“Yes you do,” Donal said wearily. “Apologies. Ser Alliser, see that you get back to yours. Let these summer children get a taste of what is to come. And you Tarly.”

“My Lord?”

“Tell Maester Aemon that…we can finish tomorrow. I need to know what Mallister and Pyke want for men, when it comes for them to say their vows. I’ll be needing letters.”

“It will be done,” Sam said. “On the morrow?”

“On the morrow,” Donal Noye insisted. “Go back to Maester Aemon.” Sam made a few quick nods and walked away, his toes shivering in his boots. As he made his way up towards the rookery, he felt a wave of prickles on his neck. He made a few deep scratches against his furs and leather, and he looked down. The man with red and white hair was looking at him from behind the iron cage.

 

**THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE**

 

A few moments before, Alezek had smiled with pride. He strolled in like he had laid a golden egg, his smile wide and insufferable. But as soon as he spoke, Terzac frowned, and his son’s pride melted away. “You wanted to pay _how much_?”

“Seventeen,” Alezek said quickly. Terzac wanted to bash his fists against the table. _The Master of the house needs to uphold a certain decorum._ His father’s teachings rang in his ear. He gritted his teeth. “Shaznak’s name has been echoing in the streets for the past year, Father.”

“ _Seventeen_ ,” Terzac said. “Seventeen golden harpies for a single slave, and one of Nezzar’s creations to boot.” Nezzar vo Utiez was a foul minded simpleton, one who raged Terzac to no end. He was not deaf to the achievements that Shaznak had enjoyed in the streets of the city. Nezzar had no issue with his bloodborne being no more than base entertainment for the street trash. “The house of Hrasher is a place of honor, Alezek, where men are made titans. We shouldn’t accept-“

“He killed a man blindfolded, Father.”

“-spawns of fools like… _blindfolded?”_ Terzac leaned back in his chair.

“It was a wager between Nezzar and Gheerez vo Ulmien.”

“Shit spewing at filth. Get to the point, Alezek.”

“Nezzar boasted that Shaznak could kill any of Gherez’s bloodsworne blind. Can’t say if he was sincere or not, but that was how it went down. Shaznak suffered a few cuts, but he killed Gherez’s man all the same.” Alezek crossed his arms, and Terzac could see the pride on his son’s face. “That’s why I offered seventeen harpies for the man. Those with talent like that can only grow in the house of Hrasher.”

“If he can survive his proving,” Terzac grumbled. “Seventeen. No fighter, no matter how strong or capable, is worth seventeen fucking harpies, Alezek. My father bought Majgor for eight, I got Alekies for six, and Niezmok for ten. Yarkaz, who has held the title of Titan for longer than any of them, for less than five. And you offered seventeen for a man whose biggest accomplishment was for killing street filth blindfolded!”

“The people love Shaznak,” Alezek insisted. “All of his fights gather a crowd. Imagine that when we premier him in the Blood Pits.”

 _My son only sees what he wants._ “The people don’t know what they want! One moment they want blood and carnage, the next for a bloodsworne to be liberated for glorious victory. The blood pits are supposed to be gory devotion to the Flayed Twins. What honor is any of Nezzar’s going to give?”

“Bloody ones,” Terzac said. “That _is_ the essence of it.”

Terzac wanted to throttle him. _Patience. He is young, ambitious, a keen mind for business. But he is not wise._ “But not the truth of it. It’s not just the killing that the gods demand – it is glorious combat. Men fighting to the death, watering the sands of the arena with their blood. You know this.”

“What do you want from me, Father?” His laid his hands on a chair and leaned forward. Terzac could see his fingers digging into the wood. “You give me a hundred harpies, to do with as I please, so long as I honor our family. The only exception being which slaves we buy. I follow your commands, track the scents to the most worthwhile prize, and you reject me. What do you want from me?”

 _I want you to care for our house. I want you to know that these walls are not your cage. I want you to find joy in our family’s calling. I want you to have some sense._ He poured for himself a cup of summerwine. The sweet taste had always calmed him. “I give you the means to stretch your abilities. Do you think it so unusual for a father to counsel his son?”

“There is a difference between counsel and nags.”

That was it. “And there is a difference between being young and stupid!” In his rage, he had slammed the cup onto the table and spilled most of his wine. “I will need to send word to Nezzar vo Utiez that the bargain shall not be struck.”

“Father,” Alezek said, almost desperately, “I had assured Nezzar—“

“Which is why you will tell him yourself that this bargain will not occur.”

“What?”

Terzac looked into his cup. Only a small puddle of the wine remained. “You heard me well enough. Not every exchange goes as planned. Or even happens to begin with. A lesson you should learn, and quickly. When did Utiez expect to receive his seventeen harpies?”

“By the week’s end.”

Terzac shook his head. “That won’t do. Tomorrow you will go to his poor excuse of a manor and explain.”

“That my father rejected the proposal?”

“Precisely. I would have you go now, but I want your head cleared and focused on tonight. We shall have our Proving.”

“It was supposed to be yesterday.  What right did the Andal have in teaching those slaves?”

“One I permitted,” Terzac said. “Remember that I am the Master of this house. Nothing in it happens that I don’t allow.”

Alezek leaned in close. “Then Father, tell me, what in the world are you thinking?”

Terzac looked at his son with iron. “I wish to see just what precisely this Jon of the Andals is.”

“He is a slave.” _He is not wrong._ “If he survives the Proving, he will be bloodsworne. That is what he is. We shouldn’t be delaying a Proving because one slave isn’t comfortable with death.”

“Not comfortable with death?” he snorted. “That man survived in the Abyss for weeks. If anyone has seen the eyes of the Pale Maiden, it was him. He rode with the Dothraki, and he was sentenced to die.”

“I know this.”

“You know the facts,” Terzak said with a tap on his desk. “But you aren’t thinking. That one should be a monster by now. You all know the stories of those that survive the Abyss. Survive,” he scoffed. “That’s not even the word.”

“More like changed. Turned into something not a man.”

 _My son is wise when he chooses to be._ “Quite so. But have you watched him in the yard?”

“Of course I have. I watch all of my bloodsworne.” _Mine. You forget that they will be yours only when I am gone from this world._ “He is good with that longsword of his. Very good.” Alezek fumbled his fingers into his robe and pulled out a coin. It was the first coin his son had ever earned, and he always fumbled with it when he was thinking. _Or confident._ Alezek felt the ridges, his thumb tracing against the harpy. “He is no common born.”

“What makes you say so?”

Alezek smiled. “Father, looks like you need to keep an eye on _your_ slaves.” Terzak kept quiet. _Let him have his say._ He tightened his fingers into a fist. “The way he wields that longsword of his…he was trained, Father. And not just for a few months before some company sent him off to fight. He holds that blade like it is the most natural thing in the world to him.”

“So the Andal is…what, a career soldier Is that all?”

Alezek shook his head. “He’s some nobleman’s son. I’ll give away my first coin if I’m wrong.”

Even if the gods demanded the coin, Alezek wouldn’t do it. Terzak rubbed at his chin. “What do you intend to do of this?”

His son shrugged. “I’m not the Master of this house.”

“That is not what I asked.”

At that, Alezek’s eyes glimmer. “I would do nothing. I would wait. What purpose does it hold for us to go head first into this? Once we discover just who his father was, then we can use that to our benefit.”

Terzac felt disgust rise in his throat. “You would ransom him?”

“Better,” he smiled. “I would form a debt of gratitude. Every highborn of Ghis knows that the Westerosi favors their honor above all else. They may even be willing to form trade alliances with us to settle the debt.”

“You would turn us into a school of sellswords?”

“That is just one possibility amongst many. Like I said, Father. I would wait.”

Terzac rose from his seat and walked towards the balcony. The noon heat rushed over him. Already he missed the cool taste of the summerwine. “Leave me, Alezek. Make certain that you are here for the Proving. Don’t make me pull you from the thighs of that house slave.”

“She has a name, and it is Rhagella,” Alezek called out as he left. _The boy lingers more than he should with that Lysene slave._ He couldn’t fault his son for enjoying a slave. He had the right to savor a slice of meat. His own grandmother was a slave bought from Tyroshi pirates. The blood of the Rhoynar still ran in the house of Hrasher. And if Alezek had a son or two from Rhagella, Tarzek would have no complaints. But he shouldn’t get too attached to her. _Save your oaths of unity for a daughter of Ghis._ He was certain that Alezek had that much sense, at least.

Terzac looked down into the yard. He watched as Yarkaz weaved around Qalentos’ spear thrusts and slammed the man’s back with his shield. Qalentos almost went flying from the impact, and he toppled into the sand. _A champion, a Titan. That is what I made out of him._  When Yarkaz first came, he was just a Qohorik by-blow. But then he was filled with ambition, and Terzac turned him into a man worthy of being called a Titan. _You are one of my finest accomplishments, Yarkaz. Next to my son, there is no man I could be more proud._

Jon was in the heart of the heat, but he was not training. He was pointing a mock sword at the Norvosi, saying something about how the man’s balance was off with his swing. “You are facing against someone who has killed a hundred men. You think he won’t notice? If you are going to swing like an idiot, at least make sure that you won’t get knocked over for it.” The Andal had the right of it. Terzac considered what his son told him. _Jon does not hold himself like just another veteran sellsword._

His son could very well be right. _Alezek always had a keen eye. It usually got him into more trouble than anything._ But perhaps he had refined it into a talent worthy of a master. He heard lumbering steps behind him. “Arekor.”

The monster’s hand shook as he held the plate. “Master?”

He did not turn to face the slave. “Where were you last night?”

“In the depths, Exalted Master.” The boy always did knew his courtesies. “I was speaking with the Andal. Jon.”

“I know his name, Arekor.” He turned to face the thing. Arekor was a mockery by the gods. His shriveled hand hung at his side, and his face was grotesque and twisted. His bulging eye watered endlessly. “What did you speak with Jon about?” The slave hesitated. “Answer me, Arekor.”

“I want to train,” he said. “I want to be bloodsworne.”

“You always have.” The beast had always admired the Bloodsworne he would see in the Blood Pits. He wanted to be more than what he was. He wanted to defy the gods, in his small way. “But you would take Jon away from his training with the Alashant. I will not allow it.”

Arekor became very still. “Master.” The way he spoke the title, one would think his very breath was ripped from him. “I am not weak.”

“You are malformed. Your hand is ruined and withered, and you are blind in one eye.”

“The rest of me can kill.” Terzac looked at Arekor’s hand. It was all muscle. He could see thick veins, dark and blue, bulging across the surface. His fingers could create a fierce grip. _How easily could you crush my skull?_ “Please, Master. Let me be more than I am.”

 _This is a fool’s errand._ “Very well,” he sighed. “But not during the light of day. I will not have you be made a fool of in front of my bloodsworne. The Westerosi will choose when he humors you. If I hear you are a nuisance to him, I will end it.”

Arekor sucked back some of his drool. “Yes, Master,” he wetly said.

Terzac waved him away. “Clean up my desk.” He could the soft clattering of silver as Arekor got to work. The beast was clumsy, but he had a brute strength behind his fingers. Still, he was not worth Marsoltor’s attention. The beast had too many weaknesses. He had only one good eye, and the sheer power of his arm did not make up for how he only had one. _The moment he enters the Blood Pits, he is dead. So why would you spend your time on him, Jon of the Andals?_

When night came he was standing on the balcony over the yard. The torches burned with orange and gold, and lit the training yard in a warm glow. Alezek was at his side, sipping on a glass of merlot from Lys. “I think you had the right of it.” Alezek turned his head. “About Jon the Andal. I was watching him in the yards earlier today. Leading men is in his bones.”

“We should take care,” his son said. “Don’t put him in any contests too dangerous. Like I said, we may need him.”

“But not remove him from the Blood Pits all together. Let’s not forget he is bloodsworne. That still means something in this house. He will spill some blood for the arena.”

“As you will, Father.” Alezek sipped at his wine.

They watched as the Proving unfolded. Laezek was the first to go. The man was covered in criss-crossed scars across his arms, fashioned in the looks of a harpy’s talon. Each one marked the occasion in which he had taken flesh from a slave. “What were you thinking, buying one as him?” he had demanded of his son when the purchase was made.

Alezek had shrugged at that. “He was cheap enough. I thought it was worth the chance.”

He surely didn’t think so when Laezek was cut down by Alasro. The man squealed as Alasro pierced his chest.

Next came Iorwen. Terzac was not quite so certain when he bought the slave from the lots. He certainly was capable – he had survived quite a few Provings from lesser houses. But those were not the house of Hrasher, who ascended their bloodsworne to truly be worthy of the mark. It is easier to craft a man from nothing than to force clay into iron.

Perhaps his friendship with the Andal had improved his skill with the blade, but Terzac doubt that. The man had survived multiple Provings – and even if they were all from lesser houses, that meant something. But Alyxqo was a Bloodsworne of _his_ house, and that meant a great deal more. For all the man’s talents, Terzac was not so certain that Iorwen would survive the day.

Alyxqo went first, leading with jabs and stabs of his spear. He did precisely as he needed to did, which was keeping Iorwen at bay. Terzac remembered the man’s Proving, before even Marsoltor had risen to Alashant of the house. Alyxqo was half a man, thin and scrawny, but quick and smart on his feet. Terzac saw the potential in the man, and spent years training him in shield and spear before his first contest. Iorwen was feeling the blunt of that effort as Alyxqo pushed him relentlessly.

He knew how to keep his enemies at bay, but Terzac suspected that this wasn’t the first time Iorwen had dealt with a spear. The man moved between the jabs, leaning closer and closer. Alyxqo knew what was happening and pressed his advantage. He threw a thrust but Iorwen swerved around it. Alyxqo’s feet dug into the sands as Iorwen cut down. His ignades clanged against the shield.

One thing was in Iorwen’s favor – the night did not allow Alyxqo to blind him with a glare bouncing from his shield. It was a tactic that he and Qalentos knew all too well.

The Tyroshi swerved beneath a spear thrust, and he sliced through the air. Alyxqo stepped back suddenly, and Tezrac watched as the Summer Islander laid a hand on his chest. His fingers were coated in blood.

“The first cut,” his son admired. “The Tyroshi stands half a chance.”

_More than half._

Perhaps there was some boar blood in the men of the Summer Islands, for with the cut Alyxqo came on Iorwen, faster, more fiercely, more bloodthirsty, with higher pitched screams and faster thrusts. Alyxqo had assumed too highly of himself. The idea that Iorwen could touch him was an insult. And now that Iorwen has earned the first cut…well, perhaps that was a thought that Iorwen could not bear?

Iorwen was twisting Alyxqo’s anger against him. Tezrac could near hear from the balcony, but he could not mistake the glint in the Tyroshi’s eyes. He was saying words, his grin was producing insults, an Alyxqo was falling for the trap. He thrusted too far, and Iorwen sliced across his shield arm. Blood trickled down Alyxqo’s fingers.

He screamed, and with all of his fury behind it he pointed his spear at Iorwen’s heart. It would have skewered him, it would have killed him. If it had hit, but Iorwen was as slippery as a weasel as he twisted under it. Iorwen left a cloud of sand behind him as he sprinted towards Alyxqo. His blade grazed by Alyxqo’s neck.

“Yield!” Iorwen shouted. Terzac could almost see Alyxqo’s pride shatter. Then he let out a defeated breath and dropped his spear.

“I yield,” he muttered.

Alezek sipped on his wine. “So we have our first Bloodsworne. The Tyroshi was good.”

“Very good,” Terzac said. “Alyxqo could not get a single cut on him. Color me impressed.”

“The others may not be so fortunate. Iorwen has been through a Proving. He knows how these things work.”

The others, contrary to his son’s insight, were fortunate. A week past the Qohorik was capable with the short spear, but understanding of the net was pitiful at best. The man still had no business wielding a net, but he proved a more than capable opponent for Qalentos. Both men used the spear, but the Bloodsworne could manage only a single cut on Saethor’s arm. Saethor never went for a kill – he would only graze the man. But a cut was a cut, blood was shed three times. Those were the rules of the Proving.

Horeah of Norvos was a proud man. He did not drag his feet onto the sands, and Terzac was half certain that he had puffed out his chest. Or perhaps he was truly as muscular of a beast as he appeared. With a fierce grip he kept his axe close to his chest. The man had no graces.  The man had no subtleties, and gave no illusions. He was as he appeared: a man with an axe in hand, who would cleave you in two with it.

In that way, Maoko was the perfect opponent for him. The Dothraki was sold to them a year ago by one of Khal Drogo’s captains. Polo, if Terzac could remember correctly. He came to them shaved, and Terzac made certain that the man stayed that way. No better way to keep a Dothraki in line. For the trouble, Maoko was a fierce and ferocious wielder of his arakh, and proved a capable investment.

The axe was just as sacred to the Norvosi as the arakh was to the Dothraki.  _This would be interesting no matter who wins._ Neither weapons were made for light cuts. Perhaps it was a mistake, to pit Horeah against Maoko.

Watching Horeah and Maoko fight was like watching a dog fend off a bull. They did not test each other. Horeah went in with an overhead strike from his axe, cutting deep into the earth. Maoko returned in kind with a swipe of his arakh. Horeah had a good grip on his weapon. He knew to use his shaft to block the strikes and the superior reach an axe provided.

Alezek turned to his father. “I’m not surprised the Norvosi is so capable.  The axe is sacred in Norvos. I hear their bearded priests are protected by guardsmen that only know how to wield and axe.” Terzac had heard the same, but if Horeah was the example to be set, then he was unimpressed. Horeah knew his weapon, but he didn’t truly understand it. He was like wild bull, thrashing and grunting on the field. That was not the way of the Bloodsworne – Terzac held his to be warful gods on the sands. If Horeah survived the day, it would be quite some time before Terzac would permit him into the Blood Pits.

The shaft of the axe hit Maoko, and it sent the man reeling. He stumbled a step before Horeah brought swung with his axe. The Dothraki recovered quickly enough, and rose his arakh. It blocked the strike, but the sheer strength behind Horeah’s swing forced Maoko to the ground. The Norvosi brought his axe high.

“Enough!” Marsoltor’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. “Maoko, do you yield?” The Dothraki said nothing. “Do you yield?” Marsoltor said again, with a bit more fire in his voice.

“This one yields,” he said.

Alezek motioned for Arekor to fill his cup. “I have to say, I’m disappointed. I was expecting a great deal more blood.”

 _As was I. Two combatants so fierce should not leave with only wounded pride._ “The Dothraki yielded, and that is insult enough. The Norvosi proved more than capable. I will need to have a talk with Marsoltor about the Dothraki. That was a pitiful performance.”

“The Dothraki are more beast than man. Maoko is a capable fighter, but he has his limits. He is no Yarkaz.”

 _Few men are._ He watched as Yarkaz entered the ring. Earlier in the day he was training with sword and shield. Now in his hands he clutched a whip, coiled and tipped with a blade. His flexibility in arms was just one cause for him to be so respected and feared. Spear and net, axe, ignades, mace or short sword, Yarkaz was capable in them all.

More than capable. On the sands of the arena, he was the great God of War, Anaxares, given form. Terzac vo Hrasher had never seen a greater warrior emerge from his house. Yarkaz was his greatest triumph.

“Father, if it goes too far-“

“I know. Arekor.” The beast drew close. “Go to the Alashant. Tell him to force Jon to yield should it look like he shall die.”

“Master,” he said as drool dribbled down his lips, “that would be considered an insult.”

“Arekor.” There was iron in his voice. “I am the Master of this house. See it done.” He bowed his head and left.

Jon of the Andals stepped onto the sands of the yard, longsword in hand. Terzac had never seen the man so sure. He held that sword like it was all he knew. “The Andal is a fighter.”

“But Yarkaz is a Titan,” his son said, with some pride on his lips. The way that Jon stood seemed both cautious and certain to Terzac. He knew just how dangers the Titan of Hrasher was. That was good. A warrior needs to understand his opponent. Yarkaz, on the other hand, had a confident grin on his face. “That one is eager for blood.”

Terzac nodded. “This won’t be like the last bout. There will be blood enough for both of them. Still…I hope that Marsoltor is quick to end it. If needed.”

“You don’t have confidence in the Andal?”

“I have confidence in Yarkaz.” He lifted the cup of sweetwine to his lips. _And that might earn Jon a scar or two._

Marsoltor uncoiled his whip and crackled it, and the sound was like a thunderstrike. He gave the command to begin, and like soldiers obeying the rhythms of a war drum, the two combatants approached each other. Yarkaz’s grin was all confidence and swagger. He unleashed his blade-tipped whip at Jon’s face. Jon just as much rolled under the crack of the whip as he did step out of the way. _The Andal is quick._ Yarkaz made for another strike and Jon avoided that one too.

The Titan was toying with Jon. He had seen Yarkaz act as such a thousand times – when he knew that he was better than his opponent, he wanted the bout to last. To draw out every second. The crowd loved him for that. It made his victory all the sweeter to succor on.

Again and again they went. Yarkaz struck and Jon avoided it. The way the two reacted to each other reminded Terzac of two men bartering at the lots. A man would give an offer, and the other would hold his ground, and both would be testing just how far the other would go, how far one would bend before they would break.

Then, the whip found Jon’s hand, coiled around it like vines on a pillar, and Yarkaz pulled. Jon croaked out a scream as he went flying, and as when he hit the dirt a cloud of dust and sand flew into the air.  Jon half jumped, half stumbled to his feet, his breaths all ragged and hallow. Yarkaz came halfway between Jon and his sword, and stood there with spread legs.

 _Come on Andal_ he was saying. _Get your sword._ Jon stood there with bent legs, gray eyes narrowed, and Terzac thought he looked less like a man than a wolf ready to pounce. Yarkaz cracked the whip and Jon rolled out the first, dodged below the lash of the second and dove beneath the third, sending back a jet of sand as he scrambled to his feet and raced past Yarkaz. Jon was about to grab his sword when the whip bound around his wrist, and Yarkaz pulled. But Jon did not go flying – he dug his feet into the sand, bent his knees, and stood his ground.

Bloodsworne and initiate looked at each other, and Terzac could see the defiant glare in Jon’s face. His feet twisted into the sands as Yarkaz pulled. Jon’s hand trembled as he reeled back, the leather of the whip rippling at the strain.

Then Yarkaz released his hold , Jon lunged for his sword and turned, and the Bloodsworne ripped through the air with his whip. As the blade cut across Jon’s chest he cried out. He clutched at the wound and looked at his red hands. Blood trickled down onto the sands.

“The first cut.” Yarkaz coiled the whip. “You won’t live long enough to get the third, Andal.”

Alezek looked to his father. “Father, Jon cannot die. Not yet, not until we know just what precisely he is.”

“He won’t,” Terzac promised.

“We could call it off now.”

“No,” Terzac said. “It is only the first cut. And I would still see just what the Andal can do. The fight goes on.” Alezek frowned as he settled in his seat. He asked for some more wine. _Better drunk than causing a temper._

Yarkaz uncurled the whip with a flick of his wrist, the long and thin leather coiled around his legs. He brought the whip up, long and sharp, poised to strike. Yarkaz struck deep into the earth with the whip. Jon curled out of the way, slipping past like a serpent, hands gripped around his sword. He went forward, and Yarkaz unfurled another strike.

Jon slipped to the side, and Terzac could see the hungry look in his eyes. He had seen it a thousand times. _Jon is hungry. He wants blood. The Andal wants to hear my Titan scream._

He lunged forward, the point of the blade aimed right for Yarkaz. The Titan twisted like a worm and curled the whip around him. Jon slipped past the strike and pressed again, his sword up high. He swung down, but again Yarkaz avoided it. The Andal pressed again, his sword cutting a wide arc. Yarkaz had already unhurled the whip, he had not built the momentum –

Yarkaz dropped the whip and lunged for Jon. His fist crashed into Jon’s face and the man toppled over. “I warned you Andal,” he breathed. “You will not survive to my third cut.” Jon was still reeling from the blow, his head half buried in the sand, his fingers seeking out the hilt of his sword, when Yarkaz grabbed him by collar.

“Father,” Alezek pressed.

“I know.” Terzac rose from his seat. He cleared his throat. “That is-“

Jon slammed his head right into Yarkaz’s face. The Bloodsworne staggered back a step when Jon sent another strike from his fist into his face. He fell onto the ground, a small cloud of dust rising. “You talk too much,” Jon said. “You want to kill me? I’m right here, Titan.”

Yarkaz roared out as he got to his feet, his feet clawing the dirt behind him as he charged right for Jon. The Andal looked behind him, saw his sword laying in the dirt, and just as much leapt for it as slid across the yard, his fingers grasping for the hilt. They found the steel and curled around the blade.

Jon twisted and lashed out, and the pommel of the sword crunched into Yarkaz’s face. The Titan went flying, spiraling, before he crashed into the earth.

Terzac could feel the silence weigh on the yard.

Jon rose to his feet, his hand clutched around the blade.

“How can he do that?”

“He just did.”

“I mean, Father, does that _count_? Is that a cut? Is that the third cut?”

Terzac looked to his son, and his eyes were wide as a pan. He was standing, his dropped cup of wine spilling over the floor. Alezek leaning over the balcony, his fingers digging into the rails.

“Yes,” Alezek decided. “Jon has earned the mark. He is Bloodsworne of our house.”

**THE WOLF IN THE PITS**

 

When night came, so did the Alashant. His entire body was still aching when Jon heard the familiar creak of his cell door. The Alashant stood there in the carved out hole in the wall. He almost looked a phantom, the way the torches lit his approach. Save for the orange-gold blaze, Jon could see little of the Alashant, save for the gold flicker in his eyes. “Come Andal.”

“Is it time?” Jon asked as he rose to his feet.

“Yes. It is time for you to swear the oath. Come.”

Jon followed the Alashant out onto the yard. He had spent so many hours and days here, being trained by the Alashant, and Jon in turn tried to instill some bits of wisdom into his fellow newbloods. _A man alone is nothing_. _A man alone is everything_. The two teachings from two different masters echoed in his mind as he set to his task. So long as the other fighters of House Hasher hated him, Jon knew he had no chance to live.

Jon looked at the others of the yard. Both of those veterans of the arenas and the untested looked at him. Jon could not say that there was hate in their eyes. Iorwen curved his lips into a smile, and when Yarkaz nodded his head, Jon saw a shade of approval.

He was surrounded by…Jon could not call them friends. What did a slave know of friendship? That was formed from a bound that a man was free to spend. But these men clung to one another because they had no choice. _They must have the love of the man next to them, or they will die._ Surrounded by them, Jon had never felt more alone. He wished he had Ghost by his side. Jon had dreamt of Ghost often, but he could never feel him. He and Ghost were more than master and companion. _You had shown me Viserys, somehow. You showed me what you saw._ But ever since Daenerys was murdered, Jon had not felt Ghost one. He had never tasted hot blood in his mouth. _My true friend is dead._ Somehow, he knew it.

He saw Terzac vo Hrasher standing next to a pot filled with hot coals. In his hands was a long metal brander. The metal was hot and red, and the gray steam was fluttering into the sky. “Bend, Andal.” Jon did as commanded. Resistance would do him no good here. He saw a slave with a razor and a bowl full of cream approach. The white stuff was lavished over his hair. “What you were must die.” The razor did its work, and Jon felt his hair fall onto his shoulder in thick clumps. “When you arise as bloodsworne, you are a new man. A changed man.”

Jon closed himself to his words. _Your oaths are nothing to me._ Dany loved his hair. She used to play with it, when it was just the two of them. Her slender fingers would weave through his locks. He could see her. “Dany, Dany,” he whispered, as low as air. But Dany was dead, and so was their son, burned at the command of Bloodbeard.

 _Bloodbeard._ He saw the man’s face when he slept. His smile was like knives, his eyes a deep blue pit. Jon only had to close his eyes, and he would see the massive red beard of his. It was as dark as blood, flowing from a ruptured neck. _I will tear out your neck. Make your name true._

He heard the words of Terzac vo Hrasher. “Speak the words, Andal. And be more than you are.”

“I commit myself.” The words flowed from him. “To the House of Hrasher. I abandon who I was for their glories.” _Her hair was silver._ “I will be chained, beaten and whip, all in the aspiration of glory in the arena.” _Her eyes were violet._ “Only my name remains.” _We had a son_. “Jon of Westeros. I am sworn to you, Master.”

Terzac nodded. “Then you are sworn to the blood of this house, Jon.” He thrusted the brander at Jon’s arm, and the smell of smoking flesh rose up with the smoke. Pain rippled through Jon, and he felt his lips tremble. Then he lost all control, and Jon screamed, and the smoke rose higher and higher into the night sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With chapter 12, the major theme seems to be preparations. Everyone is steeling themselves for the future.
> 
> In Westeros, we have Robb agreeing to marry Margaery Tyrell. Robbaery always was one of my most favorite crack ships, and I wanted to see how I could make it work here. However, things will not be easy for the North-Reach alliance. Stannis is still a threat, and the battle of Blackwater has not yet been fought. The Freys will be none too pleased to be spurned, and especially since it was the daughter of Hoster Tully that set the engagement. Still, in canon Catelyn had wished for Robb to fall into the arms of Margaery Tyrell, and the forty thousand that Mace has at his beck and call cannot be sneezed at. A much better alliance than the one Robb secured with the Westerlings. 
> 
> Donal Noye is struggling with being Lord Commander. That is to be expected - the man was a blacksmith all his life, and even though he had earned the respect and loyalty of the black brothers of the Watch, that does not necessarily mean he is fit for command. Then again, neither is being a knight. With Yoren's return from the South, a new wave of recruits for the Wall has arrived. Among them is Jaqen H'ghar, who would have been one of Arya's mentors if not for the fact that she is in Essos right now. 
> 
> Speaking of Arya, she is in a conflicted position among the Golden Company. Myles Toyne has refused to allow her to venture with the scouting party, and she is frustrated at the slow and conservative pace the Golden Fleet is making. So much of what is going on in Astapor is unknown, and Arya hates that. But Myles Toyne thinks Arya is a much more patient individual than she really is. We'll see how she reacts to his orders. 
> 
> And Daenerys, meanwhile, is frustrated at the crossroads she has found herself on. On one hand, she wants to save Jon. Desperately so, and none can fault her for that. But that would be a death sentence. The Dothraki are not known for their plots and schemes. And even Agerion snaps at Daemon. In many ways, Agerion understands Daenerys better than she knows herself. With the fear and frustrations mounting up, she finally accepts Quaithe's invitation to venture to the ruins of Old Ghis, where the dragonlords defeated the Ghiscari Empire. Among the ashes of one ancient dynasty, Dany hopes to find answers. But just what kind of answers does Quaithe want her to find? 
> 
> Lastly, we see Jon has become a bloodsworne to the house of Hrasher. His arm has been branded, and during the ceremony all he can think of is Daenerys. He sincerely believes she is dead...and there is one man that is responsible for that. Red Beard is a constant presence for Jon. He will do whatever it takes to kill the man.


	14. The Shadows of Ghis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya makes her choice. The Sealord reveals his plans to Jory. Daenerys walks into the shadows of her ancestors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are so inclined, read this chapter with music here: http://wp.me/P7Obn3-4x

**XIII**  
**THE SHADOWS OF GHIS**

**THE WOLFGUARD**

 

The world was nothing but the deep sea, and the only souls upon it was the Braavosi fleet.

For months now, that was the only truth that Jory Cassel has known. From atop the deck of the _Titan_ , all Jory could see was blue. The waves rolled over each other, and sometimes in the distance he would hear the cries of gulls. Where they perched he could not say, for any strand of rocks were few and far between.

From Braavos the fleet had skirted around the Lys, Myr and Tyrosh – or the Three Whores, as Jory had often heard from the seamen. The prowess of the Braavosi galleys were known even in the North, but Jory had to admit that he didn’t realize that they were so capable. Their wooden oars cut through the water like a knife through sheep flesh, and they accomplished in weeks what should have taken a month.

But for all the speed they sliced through the open waters, they could not have left the Smoking Sea any quicker. For near on a week the ruins of Valyria loomed, either just out of the sight through the fogs, or thundering in the distance. The black clouds crackled above the graves of the dragonlords. No sleep was to be had, no matter how much Jory twisted on his narrow bunk. If not the noise, than the fear in his mind kept him awake.

 _There are no ghosts, no dead that prowl the earth. Demons and devils are the stuff of children’s songs._ But so long as Valyria loomed in the distance, Jory kept an open eye.

It was easier once Valyria was left behind. The fleet sliced through the water, but for all their efforts, Tormo Fregar was none satisfied. And neither were Jory and his fellow Stark’s men. “I have never seen a fleet move so swiftly, my brother,” Telrios Fregar said over a meal of spiced pork. It was sweetened with a bowl of clam chowder, drowned in milk. He had grown to love the taste of sea beasts, and would miss it when he had returned home.

“They have a desire to set the world to rights.” The Sealord had only supped a spoonful or two of the chowder. Jory thought that a dozen wheels must be spinning in his mind at once. “Jory Cassel, my apologies. If I acted more swiftly, I would have beaten Khal Drogo to Astapor.”

“You could not have known,” Jory said. “And we would be stuck somewhere between Braavos and Slaver’s Bay, instead of on your fleet.”

“Ignorance is no excuse for ineptitude, Northman. A Sealord should acknowledge his failures.” His blue eyes were like crystals, and as sharp as any steel. “We know so little, and presume too much.”

“That is the nature of war,” Harwin said. “You try to fight through the fog, but you can only do so much. Rely on your scouts, trust in them, and make your judgement. That is all any man can do.”

“Perhaps,” said Tormo, “that is fit for a man. But a Sealord must be more than that. My words have value, Westerosi.”

At times, Jory wondered how the sailors would not go mad. They would spend years treading across the waters, spending only a few scant days at a port, and yet Jory had grown sick with longing after just a month. He had grown tired of the salty air, and he desired the feeling of something hard and sturdy beneath his feet. He swore once that he would kiss dirt at the first possible opportunity, embrace it like an absent lover.

What Jory missed most, he thought, were the sounds that he knew. To travel across the sea was to sail with the exotic. Ships would moan and ache like the soft growls of a beast, there would be the squawks of gulls unseen, and off in the far distance would be the gushing of water, spit through the air higher and higher. “What is that?” Jory said the first time he saw the thing, a monster off in the horizon. He heard the noise, a long and drawn out cry, that was unlike anything he had ever heard. He tugged on the sleeve of Talrios Fregar, who seemed so amused by Jory’s fright.

“That thing right there?” he said all smiles. “That, Westerosi, is a leviathan.”

“Leviathan?” Even the name sounded wrong. If the Braavos were to explain that the word was High Valyrian, Jory would not have been surprised.

“Monsters of the sea, some call them, although I have never seen a more gentle monster. That sound you hear is them talking. It’s like a song.”

“A song?” Like any true Northman, Jory cared little for bards or their songs. Lady Sansa loved hearing them, but that was the Tully blood that ran through her.

Fregar shrugged. “Well, of a sort. What would you call what they do, if not singing?”

_Monstrous belly aching._

Jory and all the rest are often invited by the Sealord to dinner. Invited is too soft of a word, perhaps. Obligated to attend may be a better phrase. Jory could never imagine a time when Tormo Fregar asked for anything. He said, and it was done. In many ways it reminded him of Lord Stark. The man was far less confrontational, has less of a commanding presence than the Sealord, but the Lord of Winterfell always found the ways to achieve what he wanted. No lord of the North questioned the Stark in Winterfell, and no captain within the Braavosi fleet would dare raise opposition to Tormo Fregar.

Well, save for Talrios. That was the one man that would be allowed to leave an argument with Tomro with his head still intact. Tormo was stone and fury, wielding his stiff tongue like a whip. The brother was all charm and illusions; every smile hid a dagger.

Jory wondered how Jon or Daenerys Targaryen would handle the two brothers. He and the Stark’s men could barely get a grip on them. Alyn kept all quiet; he was little more than a boy who knew how to wield a sword. Red whiskers grew form his chin, and he was sailing under the banner of a man that ambitioned to change Essos forever. Harwin was older and more confident, and Jory could see in the man’s brown eyes the desire to lash out at the Sealord. But with age came the wisdom to keep his screamer shut. And shut he remained, besides the gritting of teeth and clenching of fists behind his back.

And Jory wondered if he had some of the Stark’s blood in him, because he would be the only one to defy the Sealord. “You bring us onto your ship, and you remain silent, Sealord. You keep us in the dark, and yet you want the son of our lord indebted into your plans. You boasted that the Braavosi shipwrights were the fastest in all the land – and yet we still have yet to reach Astapor.”

Tormo Fregar was as still as stone, his eyes unflickering in the torchlight. “You will know when you know, Westerosi. When I deem you to know. Eat your pork, Jory Cassel.” And as much as it shamed him, Jory followed the man’s command.

Would Jon Snow be different? If he was more like his sister Arya, then without a doubt. But Jon Snow had none of that wolfblood in his veins, none of that passion and recklessness. Bastard son he may be, but Snow was his father’s son to the bone. Quiet and considering, long and sure, and more than a little bit stubborn. But he wouldn’t openly resist the Sealord, of that Jory was certain.

But what of Daenerys Targaryen? Jory had no answers for her. He could only think of her family, and the Kings and their Sister-Queens were as varied as the stars. Aegon the Fourth was a womanizer, while the Third was softly spoken and wise. Daeron the Young Dragon cared not for the gods, while Baelor exalted the Seven.

 _She must have a fire in her. She is a Targaryen. They rode dragons._ The Targaryens were either dead or exiled across the Narrow Sea when Jory had grown, but he had heard of them. Fierce protectors of their birthright, and proud. _She has to be filled with pride. How can she not? Pride in her name has to be all that was left to her. Perhaps that was what made her so bold as to choose Jon. She has to be brave as well. How could she not, when she defied a Khal to have Jon. The pride and courage of a Targaryen…that must be what drew Jon to her._

Tormo Fregar would have a hard time with Daenerys Targaryen, Jory realized. The Sealord would stand as firm as stone, his stern gaze borrowing down into her. And Jory could imagine this girl, a Targaryen that was barely into her twentieth year, looking up into defiance at this master of Braavos.

_Gods Jon, you have an untapped talent for mischief._

Jory was sure to keep such thoughts to himself, but Alyn wasn’t so wise. “So, what do you think Jon was thinking?” It was another day where nothing was to be seen for leagues. Just the blue of the sky and the depths of the sea. The lad’s face was almost as red as his hair. The hot Essosi sun had shown him no kindness.

“What do you mean?” Harwin brought the slice of lime up to his lips and sucked. The taste was awkward by itself, more bitter than anything else, but the Braavosis had insisted on it. Said that you would get a horrid disease if not for the lime. Each ship on the armada had a barrel filled with nothing but the green fruits.

“Why her? Why a Targaryen? For the weeks we spent in Braavos, I saw some of the most beautiful women.”

“Alyn,” Jory said harshly, but the lad wasn’t listening.

“Don’t tell me you never thought it. Not even once. His father fought against the Targaryens.”

“And now,” Harwin said, “we are fighting to bring her home. Her and Jon’s child.”

“I know that,” Alyn shot back. “Lord Stark gave us a command, and I won’t balk from my duties. But Snow was always…he always seemed like he had a clear head.”

“He did,” Jory said. “He still does.”

“I’m just thinking is all. Thinking what could be so special about this Daenerys that he would be willing to…well, you know.”

“No,” Harwin frowned. “I don’t think we do know.”

Alyn’s eyes darted from one to the other. “Sleep with the enemy. That’s what the Targaryens were, right? The enemy?”

Jory wanted to slap him, to bring the boy’s head against the rail. The Targaryens were the enemy, when Aerys ruled with madness and his son abducted and raped Lady Lyanna. He remembered how she put a flower in his hair, when he was just a young lad, and when she was alive and beautiful. The most beautiful woman in all the world, as he could recall.

His father had died fighting the Targaryens. Many good men died in the Rebellion.

 _I can’t hate Alyn. I have the same questions._ So many nights he would see his father’s head emerged in the darkness, his features veiled in a thick fog, but his rough voice was so clear and memorable. “I died so the dragons would fall,” the wraith would say. “What are you fighting for, my son?”

“For my lord,” he would always answer to the darkness. “Lord Stark commanded me to bring them home.”

He knew his answer was right and true. He was a Stark’s man, just as his father was, just as Uncle Rodrik. But the doubts still haunted him in the night.

“King Aerys was the enemy,” said Harwin, “aye, and so was Rhaegar. But Daenerys was not even born until the war was won. Who is she the enemy to, Alyn? Has she ever threatened a son of the North? Make a babe with our Lord’s son is a bad way to go about that path, if that was ever her intent.”

“Well, no,” Alyn said. “But the Targaryens were mad. Everyone knows that.”

“Some were. Not all. And Jon Snow is a sharp one. Knew that for as long as I have known him, ever since I first helped him onto a pony. If Daenerys was her father’s daughter, Jon would know. He’d never swear his sword to her. He’d never fall for her, and he’d sure as the hells never make a child with her.” Harwin sucked on the lime. “No, I don’t think this Daenerys is like her father.”

“Aye,” Jory said, “you may be right on that count. But is she Rhaegar’s sister?”

Harwin was silent. He turned from Jory and looked out onto the sea. Jory supposed that was the only answer he would get. _We will find out in Astapor._ The wind would bring them there.

They lingered on the island for three days, and for every single one of them Jory wondered if Tormo Fregar had lost his wits. It was like so many of the other islands they had passed, those green rocks that jutted from the waves. They were nothing more than specks on the horizon, shades so small that Jory would need to squint his eyes to see them proper.

But the island grew bigger and bigger as they sailed, and at first Jory thought that the island was just in their path, that the armada would hook around the rocks, that the Sealord surely would not be tempted by the beaches. But then Jory heard talks by the seamen of orders to dock, to lower the boats and to drop the anchor and to swim ashore.

Jory rushed to where he knew the Sealord would be, towering over his desk where a seachart was sprawled. “The hells are you doing!”

The Sealord laid down his measuring instrument, looked up to face Jory, and coolly said, “Cassel”. Before Jory could even speak a work, the Sealord turned to one of his captains. “Send word to the _Unbroken_ that they will anchor on the north side of the island. A hundred of her men should suffice for foraging.” The captain nodded, swore it would be so, and left the room.

Tormo Fregar did not address Jory as he returned to his maps. He stepped forward. “Why are we stopping? How far are we from Astapor?”

“A little over a week, more if we would suffer from a storm.”

“Then why have we stopped?”

Tormo did not raise his head from the map. “Because we _will_ suffer from a storm. In two days, perhaps three. Do you not see the gray clouds that are rising in the distance?”

Jory considered his answer. The Sealord would have seen right through any lie. “Yes,” he answered. “But that does not mean a storm.”

“It does on the seas. A storm can destroy a ship.”

“An armada is not just a ship. Tie some of the galleys together, and that can withstand any wind.”

In a shocking display, Tomro smiled. “And what would a Westerosi know of what a ship can take? You are not wrong, I’ll not deny you. But there is still a risk. How fierce is this storm, how great the wind, how loud roars its thunderclaps? Banding the galleys together may not be enough. Three days on Chain?”

Jory did not understand. “The Chain?”

“These islands,” Tormo grunted. “They are called the Chain. The sons of Ghis are not creative creatures, which serves to explain why they are slavers.” _A chain of islands called the Chains._ For once, Jory could not find fault in the Braavosi. “This place is a nest for pirates and smugglers. It is a good place to hide a fleet.”

“And when we are done hiding?”

Tormo stretched out his instrument across the map. He seemed to have nodded his head in approval, although to what Jory could not say. “Astapor, as was promised. Will that be all, Jory Cassel?”

“No.”

“Then leave.”

It was not until they had set forth on the island that Jory realized how much he longed for home. When his boots sunk into the soft sands of the beach, he saw the trees rustle in the wind. He thought at once of the godswood in Winterfell, where the pale weirwood rose over the pool. Father used to bring him there, he remembered. He could not remember what his father looked like. At times Jory tried to imagine him, and all too often he would only see Uncle Rodrik. But the weirwood was something he would not forget.

 _Are you calling to me?_ It was too much to hope; the gods could not hear him across the Narrow Sea. They had no power in Essos, in a strange land where there was no king but every man wanted a crown. But something about the way the wind pulled at the leaves comforted him. He could almost feel the pull of the godswood in Winterfell, even now, so far from home, from the Stark hold.

 _I swore to Lord Eddard that he would hold his grandchild again._ The gods had no say on what happened after death, what awaited beyond the cold. _Perhaps the dead are the gods. Do you hear me, Lord? I have not given up. I will not give up. I will find your son. I will bring his family home._ A new line of dragons would grow in Winterfell.

Old Nan always said that an ice dragon rested beneath the crypts. Perhaps she was more of a soothsayer than a teller of stories. How many times did Jon and Robb sit by the hearth and hear the story of the dragon of snow that slumbered beneath Winterfell? _Jon has a dragon for a wife, and perhaps Robb is fighting for the both of them._ The thought gave Jory some comfort as he laid out a bed roll on a hill.

He was halfway to sleep as Alyn made a sound. “What do you think they are?”

Jory turned, his roll snaking between his legs. “What?” Harwin yawned. His round shield nestled against a tree, and it made for a poor pillow. Better than the rocks and dirt, to be fair.

“The stars,” Alyn said as he looked between the two of them.

“Their holes,” Jory said quickly. “They are left over from when the sky was ripped apart.” Jory remembered hearing that from somewhere, but he could not remember when.

“Wonder if they are big?” Harwin asked. Then he let out a big yawn as he shifted on the grass.

“How big?” Jory asked.

“Big enough to go through, mayhaps?” Alyn suggested.

Jory frowned. “Nonsense. Too far away. They are small because…well, they are a thousand leagues away. No man could reach them.”

“But what if you could?” Alyn said as he shifted from one elbow to another. “What if you could go through one of those holes?”

“How?” Harwin demanded. “It’s just like Jory said. They are too far away.”

Alyn licked at his lips. “Not on the back of a dragon. Balerion could reach those heights.”

That got a snort from Harwin. “The Black Dread has been dead for hundreds of years.”

“But what if he wasn’t? What if he could reach it?”

“I don’t know,” Jory said at first. “No, its nonsense. It’s philosophy!”

“Makes you wonder though,” Harwin said, “about the comet.”

The grass rustled beneath Alyn as he turned. “What about it?”

“Where it went. Where it came from. Why it appeared in the first place.”

“An omen,” Jory said.

“From who?” Harwin and Alyn asked at once.

“I don’t know! A god mayhaps.”

“Jory,” Harwin said, “the only true gods are the wierwoods. We can touch them, we can see them. They are real. The Southrons worship the wrong gods. How the Red Priests got any converts is beyond me.”

“Pretty songs, though,” Alyn said.

Harwin snorted. “Pretty likely to keep us up at night. I’m going to bed,” he said as he pulled the roll over him. “Do the same.”

On the second day came the storm. The bright sky was transformed into a black mass that swirled above them, and they brought forth a rain that drowned the island.  The rain _tip-tapped_ on the leaves that they crowded under, and as the rain pelleted against the stones Jory was suddenly reminded of Winterfell. It sounded too much like when courser would trot over the stony roads. A sound that was soft and consistent, and its echoes were unrelenting.

Harwin hugged his knees as he puffed a tangled strain of soaked hair away from his face. “I hate the rain,” he declared. Water dripped from his nose and chin. They were awoken by the storm, and rushed for the nearest tree they could find. The men of the armada had the same idea, and now all of the trees close to the shore were crowded with them. Like ants clinging to an ant hill, they were.

“Come now, Harwin,” Alyn said behind clattering teeth. He was hugging at his knees, and a heavy wool blanket was wrapped over his shoulders. He would dry soon enough, but in the meanwhile the lad would shake with the best of them. “Not like we never saw rain before.”

Jory frowned. “There is a difference, between being cold and wet.”

“True that,” Harwin said in agreement. “Give me the hot summers or the cold winters over _this_ any day. Summer makes you hopeful, and with snow there is something to yearn for. What good is rain, but to set the mood for a funeral?”

“Good for crops,” Alyn suggested.

“And little else,” Harwin decided.

It was not much longer when Jory saw a rowboat was lowered from the _Titan_. Soon after that short and bald Meero Syreese made his way through the rain and the slippery hills towards them. “The Sealord would have word with you.”

“Not on the beach?” Alyn suggested. “It is a lovely beach. Beautiful weather.”

The freed man was not amused. “Come. Get dry on the ship. He is expecting you.” Jory gave a quick look to Alyn and Harwin, sighed, and rose up. Getting drenched once more, they followed Meero onto the _Titan._

Their boots created puddles in the captain’s quarters. Tormo and Talrios Fregar were dry and comfortable. Jory could hear the rain rasp against the ship, creating echoes that dribbled down into the wide room. Tormo Fregar only had to look towards one of his servants before they spread out three bowls filled with steaming clam chowder. One spoonful filled Jory with a fire in his stomach, and two almost made him forget that he was drenched.

Talrios gave a few glances to his brother as they ate, but the Sealord was silent and still. If the younger Fregar was expecting his brother to say something, to reveal the meaning of the summon, to explain why they were dragged from the beach in the rain and through the muddy shore, then Talrios would be disappointed. Jory savored every spoonful. He fully indulged himself in every hot, steaming bit. It was only when he slurped down the last when Tormo spoke.

“The storm was not the only reason we are here,” was how he broke the silence.

 _Of course_. Jory leaned back into his seat, hands crossed at his chest, frowning in defiance, “I suspect this is when you explain to us _why_ we had to suffer on the island?”

“Naturally,” the Sea Lord said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Have you not noticed the absence of the _Uthero_? I suppose not; you Westerosi have no talent for ships. No matter. What do we know of Astapor?”

Jory shared a glance with Alyn and Harwin. “They are slavers. And Khal Drogo lays siege to it.” Tormo Fregar weaved his fingers together and gently laid them on the table. His eyes were a dominating glare that suggested disapproval.

But the disapproval was not at him, Jory realized. “That is indeed all we know. We are shrouded in a fog, as thick as any that falls on Braavos. Such a fog is dangerous until a captain steers his ship to port, and we are in no less a danger.”

“We need to know,” spoke Talrios Fregar in a calm tone. That unnerved Jory more than anything. _Since when is the younger Fregar without a smile or a mocking grin?_ “What is going on in Astapor? Who rules, who has been defeated, what has changed, what stays the same? Do they know?”

 _Of us._ The realization hit them. They were a fleet, and such a thing could not be hidden. Not for long, and they had been at sea for weeks now. Jory had been so focused on the finding of Jon Snow that he had not considered the ripples of the attempt. “Does Astapor have a fleet? Can they contend with the likes of us?”

“No,” scoffed the Sea Lord. “Astapor is a speck, a pimple of pus and twisted hair on a ruined form. It is not Astapor that I fear.”

“Volantis,” Jory realized suddenly. “We sailed past them with no contest. Could they have known? We were not close. I did not see their harbors, not once.”

“We know not,” Talrios admitted. “Nothing keeps my brother up at night, but if there were such a thing…well, it would be Volantis.”

“And what the scion of Valyria intends,” frowned the Sealord. He leaned forward in his seat. “If they have predicted us and sent a fleet to await us, I would know. If Drogo rules in Astapor, I would know.”

_If Daenerys Targaryen is dead, he would know. If Jon Snow is dead, he would know._

“But that does not explain why we are here,” Harwin said. “Why are we waiting out this storm?”

“We have not been idle,” declared Talrios. “While my brother was assembling the fleet, I was busy assembling the men. And not all the men sailed under our banner.” Already, Jory did not like where this was going. “We have men on the inside of the beast that is the Golden Horde.”

“How many?” He tapped away at the desk, bracing for the result.

Talrios grinned, his white teeth gleaming. “Thousands.”

Meero cleared his throat. He licked his fingers and flipped through a stack of parchment. “The Stormcrows, commanded by Prendahl na Ghezn, Sallor the Bald and Daario Naharis. Truth be told, I was surprised we swayed this one to us. Prendahl na Ghezn is a prince of Yunkai, and no doubt has some blood relatives in Astapor.”

“Give me facts,” demanded Tormo Fregar, “not what has surprised you.”

The attendant made another cough. “There is also the Windblown, led by the one called the Tattered Prince, as well as the Second Sons.”

“I have heard of them,” Jory said.

The Seneschal licked his lips as he flipped through the papers. “Naturally. They are an ancient company. Mero, the Titan’s Bastard, a son of Braavos, commands them. No relation to myself.”

That inspired a deeper frown from Tormo, which Jory did not think possible. “Do not call that one a son of Braavos. He is scum. The first law means nothing to him.”

“He is our man, regardless,” soothed Talrios Fregar. “Or under our pay, at least. Nevertheless, he is our man on the inside.”

Jory realized he had left his mouth open. “What are you on about?” He felt like a child being chided by a maester.

“It will take more than a fleet to defeat Khal Drogo,” said Tormo Fregar, “or to liberate Astapor. Cunning is also required. We have hired these sellswords to be in the shadows of the enemy, to watch and observe. To plant the seeds of chaos for us to reap.”

“And when,” asked Harwin, his words dripping with doubt, “comes the harvest?”

“Upon the arrival of the fleet, when they see the sails of the armada, the companies shall turn on their masters. As the city is being ripped apart, we shall lay waste with our siege craft.” Each of the war galleys were armed with ballista and catapults, and barrels of oil to lit the sky with flaming rocks. Jory did not envy those on the receiving end of Tormo’s fat purse.

“All well and good, Sealord.” He could feel that the Braavosi was getting to the point. Jory was never a patient man. “What does this have to do with dragging us back onto your ship?”

There was a slither of a smile on Tormo Fregar’s face. That sent a chill down Jory’s spine. “You are going to make contact with the sellswords.”

Alyn nearly choked on what was left of his chowder. “What?” he croaked.

“Fear not,” smiled Talrios, “you will not be alone. I shall be with you.”

That did not appease Jory’s fears.

“You will accompany my brother to Astapor, and from there discover just what is transpiring in Astapor. Talrios will relay orders to the sellswords. Less than a week from the city. A few days to reach the city. Your vessel shall be one of the swiftest at our disposal. It will have trade goods to sell, and once that purpose has been fulfilled, you will be left behind. That gives you a week, perhaps two, before the armada arrives. Time enough for you to do what needs to be done.”

“And at the end?” Jory asked. “What happens if we cannot find Daenerys Targaryen?”

“Astapor burns, one way or another. The Masters will learn of the First Law.”

 

**THE SHE-WOLF OF WINTERFELL**

 

The _Taerhys Sothjor_ rolled and tumbled against the waves. Arya could feel it, deep within the deck of the cog. It was a swift vessel, with twelve oars on each side and two long sails to catch wind. Whatever part of Astapor they would sail for, it would not take long.

Arya thought that it had only been a day, perhaps two, since she sneaked off onto the ship. She knew she only had one chance at that, and if she was caught then the Golden Company would lock her up in a cell. She would never see the light of day again, not until the Golden Fleet had slugged its way to Astapor, weeks and weeks from now.

She could not afford that. Jon could not afford that, and Arya was certain Daenerys could not either.

The hardest part by far was Nymeria. She could not afford to leave her behind. Beside the fact that Arya would rather drown than be separated from the wolf again, Nymeria would be in danger among the Golden Company. Who knows what Myles Toyrne would have done to her, when they discovered that Arya Stark had slipped between his fingers?

She and Nymeria would escape together, or not at all.

The waters were the coldest thing Arya had ever experienced, even worse than the summer snows of Winterfell. The waters seemed to bite into her as Arya plunged into the dark waters. For a moment, Arya could see nothing, feel only the cold and the black. _Fear cuts deeper than swords, but the cold digs deepest of them all._ The clattering of her teeth echoed inside of her mouth.

Her gasp for breath was like a dagger in her throat. The cold soaked into her flesh, dug into her clothes. “Quickly,” she had gagged with the seawater in her mouth, “we have to reach the ship.” The _Taerhys Sothjor_ would be the one cog that Myles Toyne would send out. Somehow, Arya had reached the vessel, and managed to bring Nymeria aboard.

 _How did I do that?_ The question persisted in her mind as the ship was rocked by the waves. The moments in the water blurred together. Did the waters wash her memory away? Arya remembered leaping into the darkness, and the moments when she crawled into the deepest depths of the ship. Her clothes had created small pools as she wrung them dry, her knuckles shivering all the while. That much she remembered.

Nymeria was miserable. The cold waters had mottled her furs in clumps, and she was shivering. Arya wished she had a wool blanket to wrap her in, but all Arya could see were barrels and crates. A chill crept up Arya’s naked form. “What I would do for a fire,” she whispered to the wolf. Nymeria looked at Arya with golden eyes, pleading.

 _Did I kill us both by swimming through the waters?_ The fear crept into her heart, and made her more cold than the water that dripped from her hair. She could not imagine a worse death than to succumb to some water. _I cannot die here. We cannot die here. Not on a boat, shivering and shaking._

But they didn’t. She had shivered through the night and the day that followed, but the night after she found herself falling into a deep slumber. Or Arya imagined it was the night. There were no windows so deep beneath the _Taerhys Sothjor_ , and only the trickles of light that slipped into the ship told Arya the passage of time. And even then, those were just hints.

In the slow hours, when Arya’s heart would not pound like thunder and she and Nymeria would scurry behind a crate or a barrel to hide from the sailors, she thought of Father. He was jailed by the Lannisters for…for…she didn’t even want to think about it. He was in the darkness, alone. Could he see trickles of light slip through the cracks of that keep?

Father was alone in the darkness. “It’s my fault.” The words were softer than a whisper. She spoke as soft as the stale air of the ship. Nymeria’s golden eyes looked at her, knowing. “I spoke to Father when King Robert came. I was thinking about Essos, and how there were no ladies there, and no bastards, and I said that Jon should go there. If I never said that, Jon would never have left. He would have been safe in Winterfell, and Father never would have…he never would have been caught.”

Arya felt Nymeria rub her flank against her face, and she buried herself in the soft fur. “But what would Jon have, if he stayed home? There never would have been that baby…and could any lady love Jon like Daenerys Targaryen? I’m going to hold the baby. Jon’s baby.” Arya felt the tears stream down her cheeks. “Father should hold that babe. That’s not fair, Nym. Why does Father get to die, while Joffrey get to live? He wanted to kill you. I didn’t want to throw the stones at you, but Jory and I, we had to make you go away.”

Nymeria was silent. Arya did not tear her face away from the comfort of her flank, but she felt Nymeria’s stare all the same. She was more than a beast, Arya knew; the direwolf was her and she was Nymeria. Words did not need to be shed, not anymore, and Arya remembered falling asleep against the soft silence of the wolf.

It was the footsteps that awoke her. Sailors stomped down into the hold without reservation. They may well have been thunder strikes for how they seemed to wake Arya in a jolt. “Hide,” she hissed to Nymeria. “Quick!” They moved as shadows, just like how Syrio Forel taught her. On the balls of your feet, don’t place your weight on your toes, know your next two steps ahead of your first. If the sailors heard her at all, it would just be another creak on the ship.

The sailor was young. Not as young as Arya, but he would have been Sansa’s or Robb’s age. There were wisps of hair on his chin. He would have looked nice if he hadn’t dyed his hair green. _Why did you go and make your hair look like seaweed?_ Someone said something from the top of the stairs. The seaweed haired sailor turned back. “Amaro, you go tell the Captain that I heard him the first time! I’ll get him that rope!”

Arya looked down. There was a coil of rope that was a hand’s reach away from her. She whispered a curse. From behind the crate, she could see the sailor look around, his eyes glancing across the hold. “Rope,” he said to the groaning wood, “rope. Where would I find some rope?”

 _Right next to Arya Stark, who absolutely cannot be found._ She felt Nymeria bare her fangs in silence. _If he finds us, do we have to kill him?_ The sailor would tell the captain of the _Taerhys Sothjor_ , and Arya had no doubt that the cog would turn from Astapor and return to the Golden Fleet.

Arya rubbed her thumb against the smooth pommel of Needle. She had killed the fat stable boy. That was an accident, but killing the sailor would not be. It would be quick and silent. He would not know he had died until it was all over. The sailor hummed as he made his way towards her. He kept a good balance, better than Arya had ever managed, and she was trained by a water dancer. He must have been on the seas his entire life.

Nymeria was focused on the boy. Arya laid a hand on her. “Hush,” she said. “Not yet. Not yet.” _Do not make me kill you. Do not come here._ If she moved, the wood would creak, and the sailor was too close to her now. _Don’t make me stain your stupid green hair with your blood._

The wood seemed to creak louder and louder as he drew closer. She did not draw Needle. _Do not come. It will be out before you will scream._ The sailor continued to hum, and Arya continued to pray. 

Arya saw edge of his shoe around the corner of the crate. _Do not turn. Do not make me do this._ She tucked in her knee. Her heart beat in her like the gallop of a dozen horses. Her ears were pounding, and a rotten taste had crept up into her tongue. She watched as the rope was dragged and lifted. The sailor heaved and drew out a heavy breath. Arya heard the creaks become more distant…and then the groaning of the stairs as the sailor climbed them.

Arya sighed as she crumbled on the floor, her head sliding against Nymeria’s flank. “Seven fuck me.” Something that was half a laugh, half a cry, escaped her. “Seven help me. Please don’t let anything like that happen again.” Nymeria nuzzled close to her. Arya rubbed at her ears – they were softer than velvet.

Sailors would descend into the hold from time to time, but more often than not they would remain on the deck. Arya thanked all the gods for that. She and Nymeria would move behind the crates and barrels, the stocks of lime and salted beef, whenever they had a chance. She could not grow comfortable. Always moving.

She would hear fragments of curious conversation, from time to time. “I hear things,” a sailor would say, “whenever I need to go down into the hold. Like something was creaking behind the barrels and crates. But I wouldn’t find anything.”

“Maybe it’s a ghost,” a sailor would reply. Or sometimes, “just shadows, that’s all you see. Too much water will addle a man’s mind. We need some beer in us. The gods designed us to sail the waters, not to drink them.” _That’s what I am. The shadow of the Taerhys Sothjor_. The thing that existed in the hold, but none knew. The thing that sucked on the limes, and tore through the beef, but left no evidence of her crimes.

She wondered how many days passed. Perhaps only a few. Maybe a dozen. Time began to lose its meaning without seeing the sun and the moon. Her bones began to ache, and her skin felt pasty. No one was made to be held so far from the sun. When was the last time that Arya ran through a field, smelt the sweet scent of flowers, had grass slip through the gaps in her toes?  

Nymeria was miserable. She could feel the wolf’s restlessness. The hold was no closet, but it could not compare to an open field. Upon the deck of the _Bittersteel_ , Nymeria could feel the sun on her back. But the air in the holds of the _Taerhys Sothjor_ tasted old and foul. It reminded Arya of the crypts in Winterfell. _But at least then I could see the faces of those that came before. Grandfather Rickard, who was the Lord of Winterfell before Father was. Lady Lyanna, who everyone said was a beauty. All the other Kings of Winter that ruled before the Targaryens came._

It was hard to look at Nymeria, with how restless and miserable she was. Sometimes thinking on Jon was easier. _Are you dead?_ The question arose in a noiseless whisper. It could happen. Jon would come to her, in the quiet moments. Between the sound of the waves and the aches of the ship, she would hear him. “Little sister,” but the words didn’t sound like Jon. Not the Jon that were rub her hair and always find a way to make her smile. 

Arya could almost see him, in the dark, his gray eyes twinkling behind the shadows. But she would tell herself that Jon would look so much more different than when he had ridden off for White Harbor, and had left Winterfell behind. He was a father now. He _would_ look different, but when she tried to imagine how Essos would have changed him…none of it looked right.

It was never Jon she saw. Only shadows and dreams.

Sometimes she saw Mother. Her head would come creeping out from the shadows, her face appearing through the crimson strands of hair. “What are you doing here, Arya Stark? You should be home. You should be in Winterfell.”

She was not wrong. Mother was never wrong, and gods help you if you ever said otherwise.  She should have been in Winterfell. So should Sansa and Father and Jon. _We never should have left._ It was home, and it was safe. From the towers of gray stone, they could have seen the entire world. What did the south matter, when there was the bustle of Winter Town, the swamps that surrounded the Neck, and the sweet smell of the pines in the wolfswood?

“I came for Jon.” Her face was half buried in Nymeria’s furs, but even then she could see Mother’s face. “I’m bringing him home. He’s my brother, and I’m not leaving him.”

Arya felt a chill breeze, and Sansa’s hair burned through the shadows. “He is no brother of ours. He is Father’s son.”

Those were all lies. Her fingers shook as they clutched at Nymeria’s fur. She let out a low growl that rumbled in Arya’s heart. She could see Jon with his face half caked in flour. He was always there in the distance, smiling or wiggling his eyebrows for her laughs, and hers alone. “He is my brother,” she said stubbornly, “and I won’t leave him.”

“And if you die?” Mother’s voice was pleading as it echoed across the hulls of the ship. “You are so far from home, my daughter. You must not perish so far from Winterfell.”

When Arya closed her eyes, she could almost feel the summer snow tickle her nose. But then she would feel a whip of sea spray, or smell the strange food that was cooked on the streets of Volantis, and she would remember. How many months has she been away from home? How many years? “I am coming back,” she silently vowed. “I am coming home.” She did not know how long Sansa and Mother watched and stared in silence.

Perhaps it was when she felt the storm rumble through the holds of the _Taerhys Sothjor._ The thunder strikes roared through the hull of the ship, and Arya felt her body rattle whenever the waves crashed against the cog. Arya scurried for the edge of the hall, where she latched onto the heaviest chest she could find. Her fingers gripped the iron latches like they were the difference between life and death.

As Arya heard the shouts of the crew above, and the crashes of the waves against the cog, imagined that perhaps they were. She gripped even tighter.

 

**THE WOLF IN THE PITS**

 

He dreamt of salt and ash. Jon could almost taste the sea, the tall waves crashing against the ship. The screams of sailors echoed in his mind. “Fasten the line!” Men in gold cloaks and with beards coiled in golden bands struggled with the ropes and the mast. Men with blue hair and red hair gave out shouts, and Jon heard a groan like he had never heard. Something like a howl.  

Jon should have woken up then. If the gods were kind, they would not have allowed him to dream. But then the tumbling waters dried out, the sea grass withered, and Jon was surrounded by sand as dark as night. Jon could feel the hot sun beat on him, but the desert that laid before him was all black. Black sands, black weeds, black flowers. Black, black, black.

Except for her. He thought he had forgotten her hair, the silver strands. He saw Daenerys, and she was riding. Jon kept silent – for all that he wanted to scream, to beg, to ask _How_ and _Why_. For all his wants, Jon was silent as the screeching wind.

Dany looked down at him. “He lives yet,” she said, “I know he does. He is waiting.”

Then Jon saw the woman in the mask, her dark robes at one in the black wasteland. Jon saw the twinkles in Quaithe’s eyes.

That was when Jon woke up, sweat streaking down his face, his breath all haggard and desperate. He felt his face, his hair, looking for answers. But then he felt the pain in his arm, and he saw the brand, all pink and inflamed with the sigil of Hrasher, and Jon knew he was awake.

For the first few days, his arm was wrapped in silk. “It will help with the irritation,” the Alashant had said. Terzac vo Hrasher was the one that had thrusted the iron onto Jon’s flesh, but it was the Alashant that ensured Jon got the treatment he needed. Jon remembered how loudly he screamed as the hot iron was pressed to his arm. For an hour, all his arm could do was shake, and wipe waters from his eyes. The healer was patient and diligent as he rubbed the salves over his arm. By the time the bone thin man was done, Jon thought his arm would fall off.

Days after, and the brand still had a pink look to it. The pain had mostly left him, leaving behind only small pulses every now and then. For the most part, it was just itchy and irritable, and Jon wondered if the pain was preferable to the constant urge to scratch. The want raced through his mind, and his left arm was about to reach for the mark…but then he tucked his arm under his body. _Can’t scratch if my arm can’t move._

He rolled beneath the thin sheet. There was only one window in his cell, a small hole carved out of the wall, but Jon could see how full the moon was. Morning would not come for hours yet. He wanted to sleep. He needed to sleep. But somehow a slumber managed to escape him.

 _Daenerys._ Whenever he closed his eyes, Jon could almost see her. At times, he felt her phantom fingers graze against his cheek. _Will you haunt me until I end the man that killed you?_ In the still moments, Jon regretted the few arguments he had. He never should have pressed on what happened before the Rebellion. It didn’t matter who killed whom, or what type of name their child would have had. Aerys, Aegon, Jonnel, Torhen, or perhaps even Rhaegar, names were just names, and the boy still would have been his son.

His son was dead. _Can I even say such a thing, when he never even breathed in the world?_ As he gazed into the moon, Jon realized he had not even wept for them. Never mourned for them. _My tears have been dried. I cannot weep for them._ He could not look back. _Would Father even accept me, covered in scars and slavers’ brands? When Robb looks on me, would he see Jon Snow, or someone else? If I smiled and called Arya little sister, will she just call me a stranger?_

Such thoughts were his constant companion, as he idled the hours away. When morning came, his head was pounding with dull aches, and his steps were aching and slow. He almost regretted not putting in more of an effort to fall asleep. _Better this than to see my ghosts._

Jon squinted his eyes as he stepped out into the halls. Jon could see Qalentos and Alyxqo, naked and wrapped in each other’s arms in their small bunk. Alesreo gave him a simple nod and a pat on the shoulder as they crossed path. Jon watched as Horeah gave a few stumbling steps as he made his way out of his cell. “Andal,” he said. The thick curls of his mustache dangled to his chin. He leaned on the curves of the stone passage, and Jon could see the enflamed mark on the Norvosi’s arm. “You’re faring well.”

“Better than you, Horeah.” Jon could see the circles that have dug beneath the man’s eyes. “Who was it that shared their drink with you?” The day before was the annual time when all of the Bloodsworne could use their winnings to partake in celebration. Bed slaves, jugs of wine, luscious food, luxurious accommodations in the upper floors – all were available if coin was spent. But Horeah had no coin – he had no victories within any of the Blood Pits.

Horeah gave a nervous glance over Jon. “The spears,” he said in a nervous hush. “They went through one jug of wine, and then they were…”

Jon understood. “You slipped it from them while they were in bed.” Jon rubbed at his head. “That was risky.”

“And great risks give great rewards.” There was a haze in Horeah’s eyes. _He’s done with the drinks, but the drinks aren’t done with him._

Jon walked past. “This is on you, if either of them find out.”

“They won’t,” Horeah smiled, although Jon could not say that he was convinced.

Jon could hear the early grumblings in the mess hall. Everyday, they broke the fast with the same meal that they had during midday, and that was the same they would have for supper. The white broth, with meat as pale as moonlight, filled with too much salt to compensate for the void of flavor. _The more vile the food, the more they will lust for the luxuries. We can feast on meats with flavor and spices, in exchange for some of our earnings. The same earnings that we can purchase out freedom with._ Food or freedom. It was a hard choice, but Jon made it.

So he would swallow the mush.

The chef gave Jon a bowl with the white stuff, and after twirling his wooden spoon in it for a few turns, Jon began to have his meal. In the corner there was a pot filled with water, and a stack of wooden cups. After just a small taste, Jon’s mouth began to water. He made his approach.

“Andal!” Jon turned, with cup and bowl in hand, and saw Saethor slamming at the table. “Come and eat. Celebrate.”

Jon perked up his brow. “For what cause?”

Saethor shrugged. “We live.” Jon couldn’t say he felt willing to eat with the man, but he knew that spurning him would only lead to trouble. “We could be food for the earth. Instead, here we are. Eating some miserable food.” He stirred at the white broth. “Tell me something. Why did you ignore Alezek?” Jon looked up from his food. “Me and the Norvosi. You did what you could, and that probably saved our hides. But not once did you train Laezek..”

“Are you questioning the man that helped you?”

“I’m questioning his reasons.” Saethor leaned forward. “I already need to serve the wills of one master. I don’t need another.”

“You don’t obey me.”

“So, am I to guess at your intentions? Don’t tell that was all charity, Jon. This is Astapor. The weak are crushed.”

“Brick and blood built Astapor,” Jon rhymed, “and brick and blood her people.”

“That is so. So why did you give us guidance over the fugitive?”

“Because,” Jon said, “would you want one as him at your side? The man carved away at the flesh of others.” _He had the stare like those in the Abyss_. “Could you put your life in his hands, shoulder to shoulder in the arena?”

“No.”

“There is your answer.” He forced himself to down the spoonful of the white…and immediately reached for the cup of water.

The clamor of footsteps were becoming louder then, as the Bloodsworne began to rise from their slumber. Sone were hard and sure, but most had spent their coin on wine and flesh, and their pace was sluggish and uneasy. _The Alashant will have a field day with this lot._ Jon could not imagine that the Summer Islander would take pity on anyone.

Someone clapped Jon on the back. His head was rumbling – that had to be only reason why he didn’t hear it. He turned and saw Iorwen standing over him. Silvery strands of sweat fell down his face. “Andal. Mind if I join your feast?”

Horeah frowned. “Hardly a feast. I imagine goats would live off of greater stock than this. Ask the Qohorik. He would know. Everyone knows that those of Qohor are half goats themselves.”

That reminded Jon far too much of the Dothraki. “Stop it,” he said. “Whatever you were before, it doesn’t matter.”

“You do not command me, Andal.” Horeah’s voice took on a dark edge. “I am indebted to you, but do not command me.”

Daenerys suddenly flashed into his mind. Her bold smile, the wicked fire that burned in her eyes.  “Actually, I can. I am the only reason any of you are alive. Well, maybe not Iorwen, but you all of people Horeah should know better.”

“I survived the Proving,” he protested.

“By three cuts. You still have a long road before you are done with me, Norvosi. You still need me. But if you decide to be like this…then, well, I may feel inclined to not help you. Saethor, do they have tombs and crypts in Norvos?”

Saethor had a wicked grin. “They must bury their dead somewhere.”

“What would be a good inscription for the grave? Here lies Horeah of Norvos, who had too much pride to live?” Horeah was holding his spoon so fiercely, Jon thought it would crack. “It matters not what you think of the Qohoriks.” Jon’s voice was in a deep calm, just as how Father would speak to his lords. “Here,” he said with a tap on the table, “we are allies. We look out for the other. Gods know nobody else will.” Jon brought a spoonful of the white mush to his lips, and swallowed it down. His throat shivered for the effort.

Horeah rose to his feet. “I’ll eat elsewhere,” he said. Jon watched as he made his way to the one spot that was not taken by anyone – a bench that was right in the center of the Astapori summer.

“Stubborn man, that Norvosi.” Saethor chewed on the gray mush. Perhaps he thought that would make it easier to swallow. Jon imagined he would be disappointed. “But he’ll come around, soon enough. Perhaps when he gets sick of the heat.”

Jon allowed himself a small smile. For some reason, Jon thought of Daenerys again. She was stubborn and prideful. Jon wondered if he ever would have managed to convince her of what happened during the Rebellion.

Jon could see waves of heat swirl through the air. _Today will be a hot one._ It was always a hot day in Astapor. The weather was just as much the enemy as anything else. There were times when Jon wondered how he managed to stand. _Why not let us train in the night?_ They were allowed frequent baths, and a cup of water was never too far away, but that wasn’t the same. It would be more efficient for them to rest in the day, and work under the cool shade of the Astapori night.

 _But we will not fight when night ascends. When the Pits are opened, it will be during the day._ As much as Jon hated to admit it, there was a reasoning to the Master’s cruelty. _How many died because of the heat? Did Terzac vo Hrasher give any thought to it?_

Jon brought the cup to his lips. _No, I suppose not. This is Astapor. And in Astapor, blood and flesh is a currency._ Alyxqo and Qalentos were stumbling over each other as they made their way. Qalentos was leaning on his lover, who was chiding him relentless. “Pray they don’t meet Horeah.”

Iorwen gave the two spears a good look. “Why not?”

“Because,” Jon said beneath his breath, “he took their wine while they were…ah…”

The Tyroshi raised his brow. “Passed out drunk? No better time.”

That afforded Jon a smile. “Yes, I suppose so. They shouldn’t be so quick to do that.”

Saethor gulped down some water. “Do what?” he asked with a mischievous glimmer. “Get themselves drunk? Jon, even the Titan buys out whores and barrels of wine once in a moon.”

“The Titan? Of Braavos?”

Saethor and Iorwen shared a look, and then Iorwen gave Jon a long stare. “The Titan of Astapor.” Jon knew not what that meant. “The greatest bloodsworne in the city, the man that slayed the Savage Twins, the Long Shadow, Maelor the Mighty. No greater warrior could be found in the Pits. _Yarkaz_.”

“Yarkaz,” Jon said, disbelief overtaking him, “is so formidable a warrior? And none of you offered to say anything?”

“Well,” Saethor said, “I did offer a prayer to the Black Goat, if that meant anything.”

Jon had lost his appetite. He threw his spoon onto the table. “The thanks I receive, for making you somewhat passable warriors.”

“It was a prayer for a quick death,” he insisted.

 _I should have died a thousand times_. In Pentos, on the fields outside Qohor, on the Grass Sea, in the Abyss… how was it he always managed to live, when so many others have perished? Wendel Manderly’s ashes were scattered to the wind, Daenerys is gone. His boy was never allowed to take a single breath before the fires consumed him. And yet Jon Snow lived on.

He heard heavy steps. “Andal,” growled one of the mercenaries. “The Master would see you.” Seeing the man that bought him was the last thing Jon wanted. But he knew what path that would lead him down.

Jon was led to a garden. Terzac vo Hrasher and his son Alezek were feasting under a lemon tree. He saw spread before them a vial of water with sliced lemons, a bowl of boiled ostrich legs and oatmeal laden with cinnamon. “And here is the Andal,” praised Alezek, “the man who fought the Titan. And lived.”

“The Titan of Astapor, you mean.” He crossed his hands behind his back. “Did you mean to have me killed?”

Alezek narrowed his eyes. “The Bloodsworne forgets himself.”

“He is proud.” Terzac sipped from a silver cup, the spine shaped like a talon. “And has every right to be. Jon, I meant to see just how capable you were. You survived the Abyss. But could you survive my Titan?”

“And what kind of man am I?”

“You should address my father with respect. As _Master_.”

Terzac waved his hand. “He will learn his courtesies. Or do you mean to earn your freedom before that is an issue?”

Jon chewed his lip. _He is avoiding my questions. I need to play this game. So long as I am chained, I am theirs._ “Freedom calls to me.”

“It calls to every man, until they find their ambitions lit aflame.” Alezek leaned back, a bored expression on his face. The old man ignored him. “You eat shit, and consider yourself content, because you tell yourself it was _your_ choice to eat shit. But you don’t say to yourself that what you eat is the only option available to you.”

“And is this so different? Do we not fight…or die?”

“No. You fight…or become a god of the arena. To be remembered in the chorus of the crowd. To make your name worth something. What do you want, Jon?”

 _I want Bloodbeard’s heart on a plate._ “I want to be free.”

“He’s a stubborn one, Father.”

Terzac gave a quick glare to his son. “He’s persistent. So you want freedom, Andal? Fine. Then fight for it. Tear it from the screaming breaths of a hundred men. Make the crowd cheer your name. Let it be remembered on the red streets of my city for eternity.”

“Speaking of names…” Alezek ripped into the egg, the yolk slipping down his chin. “The Andal needs one.”

“My name is Jon.”

“Your mother must have been a bore to name you that. No crowd will cheer that. Father, what did you say he was called in the Abyss?”

“The Black Dog.”

“No,” Alezek shook his head. “That won’t do. But his hair is dark enough, we can keep that part. He’s no rabid beast. Call him the Black _Hound_.” His eyes glittered. “The Black Hound of Astapor.”

“That fits.” Terzac looked satisfied as he drank from his cup. “You’re just as stubborn as a hound. And just as loyal, I pray?”

Jon bowed his head. “Of course I am, Master.” Terzac smiled.

 

**THE LADY OF WINTERFELL**

 

If Lord Mace had his way, Lady Margaery would have wed Robb in the splendors of Highgarden. Robb knew his future goodfather at once. “Mace Tyrell wants his honors, Mother. He wants his splendors and extravagances, and he wants to win this war for his daughter.” But Mace Tyrell did not seem to understand that her son was fighting a very different war than the one that he enjoyed during the Rebellion. Robb wasn’t feasting beneath shades as he laid siege to a fortress.

Robb was fighting for the future of the North. He had no time for lush luxuries.

He left his tent dressed in wool and furs. There were no silks or linens on him, only the hard material of the North, the harsh realities of a king at war. Beneath his fineries she could see a leather cuirass. “You look very regal, my son.”

Robb gave a long look. “At least I look the part. I know Lord Tyrell wishes we would be wed with the splendors of Highgarden around us. I would prefer to be doing this in the halls of Winterfell. With Bran and Rickon and Arya and Sansa. And Father. They should all be here.”

She adjusted the fitting of his cloak. “Then be content that neither you nor Lord Mace are entirely happy with your circumstances. Know that I feel the same, that your father should be here.” She took in a breath, found her footing. Longing stabbed her in the chest. “But with this marriage, we can secure our justice and safety.”

_But it is such a small thing, compared to the warm hands that held me close._

Behind her Cat could hear the fluttering of the war banners. Her son was at war, and he would wed at war. _Would their child be born into war as well?_ The thought troubled her more than it should. Robb was made on their wedding night, and he was born before Ned returned from the Rebellion. She hardly knew the girl, but Cat would not wish the same fate on Lady Margaery. A mother should not wait to know of the fate of her husband, while she feels the heartbeat in her womb. Cat remembered how fervently she prayed to the Seven for Ned, even though he never called them his. She hardly knew the man then – he was almost a stranger – but she wanted her boy to know his father.

And they gave him the chance, and Cat learned of Ned. And their love was built peace by peace, mortar upon mortar, over the years. It was a small thing, and Cat cherished it.

Now Ned was gone, and their son is waging a war in his memory. For his vengeance. For the safety of his people.

There were no weirwoods, and the Lannisters had burnt away the sept at Castamere. But there were plenty of Septons that accompanied the Tyrells. If Robb had more of a say in it, he would have found a weirdwood tree. “If we are going to do this,” the Greatjon had said, “then let us be done quick. Wed her, bed her, and finish the Lannisters off. Tywin won’t be taking root for much longer in Harrenhal.” Catelyn could not say the lord of Last Hearth was wrong…but a little more decency for the future lady of Winterfell would have been preferred.

But Robb, his bannermen, and defying all expectations, the Tyrells themselves, had taken up Greatjon Umber’s advices. There were plenty of septons to be found among the camp followers that trailed the Tyrell force. But Mace Tyrell favored Jaramy Flowers. “He is a bastard of Hightower. If my daughter must be wed in this camp, I would at least have the words be said by the son of a man loyal to me.”

Catelyn Stark had reservations about her son’s wedding being overseen by a bastard. But she kept such words quiet. _Jon Snow did not bring this chaos upon us._ The words were a bitter poison to swallow. Jon Snow had pledged his sword to Daenerys Targaryen – and Catelyn could not understand how it was connected to what happened in King’s Landing. But in her bones, she knew it. Ned had never conspired to put Jon and the Targaryen girl on the throne, but Cat knew that beyond those lies, the truth was that Jon Snow was connected.

“I will not betray him,” Robb had said. It was the week past from when word of Ned’s death had reached them, and his men had crowned her son as King. “I will not disown him.”

“Robb, you must not think of such folly. He was your brother, and you loved him. But he fights for the Targaryens now. Distancing yourself from him will only earn you favor with your bannermen.”

“No.” His words were in iron tones, and she could see an icy resolve in his eyes.

“Listen to me, Robb. You must heed my words.”

“I must? Mother, I thought it was I that was made king. Did my men lay this bronze crown on your head? Did they proclaim you as King in the North? I will not betray him. He is my brother. I know that truth, at least. And if he comes with an army…all the easier for us to crush the Lannisters with.”

“And if his army comes for you?”

“He won’t,” and that was the end of that debate, but not the end of Cat’s worries. He was too young to remember the Blackfyres. Father had told her to the final Blackfyre Rebellion, the year when the whole of Westeros united against the Essosi invaders. She remembered the ways of bastards, of the passions the bastards can bring. _And if Jon has a child with this Daenerys, he will have more reason than even Bittersteel._

But Jaremy Flowers was not Jon Snow, and not even was he Aegor Rivers. He was a simple looking man with a simple looking face that was a devout follower of the Seven who only wished to wed her son to Margaery Tyrell. For that much, she could swallow her feelings and be silent.

On the fields overlooking Casterly, they found a large tree with pink flowers. It would be as perfect of a spot as they could ever imagine. _Robb should be in a Sept, with the Father watching over him and the Mother giving Margaery her blessings._ He shouldn’t have to do this surrounded by men armored and with daggers hanging from their belts. At the very least the Tyrells have summoned their bounties to be feasted on. It was a small compensation. _Margaery won’t go into Robb’s tent wanting for food._

Robb made his procession through the camp. Robett Glover and Greatjon Umber, and Dacey Mormont were at his side, the Bear and the Giant and the Mailed Fist flying high. And high above them all was the direwolf of Winterfell.

And higher above were the Towers and the Foxes and the Rose. The men of the Reach were a proud sort, and they would not be outdone by the Northmen. _They will learn that the Northmen are just as proud, and can push just as far as any man from the South._ She had learned that lesson very quickly, when she settled with Robb and Ned as Lady of Winterfell.

Margaery was a girl with a quick wit, but that only went so far in the North. They were far more frank than the Southern lords, both in their manners and in their politics. When Robb had mobilized his forty thousand, his lords had pushed and prodded him. They tested him in every possible way, to see how far they can push him, which lords he favored and which he didn’t. Multiple lords wanted to lead his van – lords that Robb had to honor and respect – and Lord Manderly insisted that, while he would always be willing to do so much for the North, he could do so much more with more funds and supplies.

_Winterfell is not Highgarden, Margaery. You will learn that, and you will adapt to it. You must._

Robb was waiting for her beneath the pink tree. The ruins of Castamere may have been in the background, but there was a sweet smell in the air. _Winter is coming, but summer still has a few parting gifts to offer._ Septon Jaremy was at Robb’s side. She saw him whisper something into Robb’s ear, and managed to force a smile from her son. _Or perhaps it was earnest. It would be better if it was._

“You seem nervous, My Lady.” Brienne was always behind her, always her shadow and shield. The Maiden of Tarth was dressed in an elegant tunic and trousers. Catelyn could never imagine her in a dress.

“A mother is always nervous, at some point. Nervous of conception, nervous of the life in your womb, nervous of the birth. And then there are a thousand moments in your life, when you fear something could go wrong, or you wish you were a little wiser.”

“You are very wise, Lady Stark. Your words forged this alliance. And,” she said a bit more softly, “you made them see that it was Stannis. It was his shadow.”

The memory sent a chill through her. “It was the rage and heat of the moment. Any man with sense would know that…you would never harm Lord Renly.”

“Still, My Lady, you were the difference between me being branded as an outlaw and being able to stand here. I could very well have died defending my honor if you did not speak up. What I mean to say, is-“

She padded Brienne on the arm. “Such words are not needed.” She took in a deep breath. “My son is about to be wed,” she said softly.

The Northern banners were on one side, and those sworn to the Reach were on the other, and in the middle stood Lord Mace Tyrell. As fat as the man was, there was a proud air about him. Entwined in his arms were his daughter. The golden rose of Tyrell hung from his shoulder. Father and daughter made careful steps up the hill, towards the pink tree, towards the bastard septon, and towards her son.

The audience was silent. There was a stern look on the Greatjon. He approved of this union more than he did the one with the Freys, but only by a little. The sons of the Last Hearth were proud Northemn. She remembered it took too long for her to win over the Greatjon – and that was with the boon that her father’s men fought with Ned in the field. The Tyrells were with the dragon in the last war.

_But now the wolves and the roses fight together._

Margaery and her father stood before Robb. “Your Grace,” said Septon Jaremy, “you may take the bride under your protection.” As Mace Tyrell took a few careful steps back, Robb took a few bold ones forward. He unclasped the cape around Margaery, and the rose crumpled at her feet. Olyvar Frew was Robb’s squire, and he held the gray cape of Stark folded in his hands. If the boy protested this breaking of oaths to his father, he did not show it on his face. Robb unfolded the cape and tied it around Margaery.

There was a satisfied look on the Septon’s face, and he looked over the crowd. “My Lords and Ladies, we stand here in the sight of…” He looked confused for a moment, as he realized that there no statues of the Seven to watch over them. “In the sight of lords and ladies to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” _That was a stumbling recovery, but a recovery nonetheless._

Robb and Margaery’s fingers were locked within each other. Septon Jaremy proceeded to tie a crimson ribbon around their fingers. “Let it be known,” he said as he gently tied, “that Robb Stark, the King in the North, and Lady Margaery of House Tyrell, are of one heart, one flesh. One soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them apart.” Robb and Margaery turned to face the crowd, and Jaremy began to unravel his work. “In the light of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon each other and say these words.

“Father,” said the septon. “Father,” said Robb and Margaery. “Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden Crone, Stranger.” Their voices echoed and bounced off of the other. “I am hers,” continued Robb, and “I am his,” said Margaery. “From this day, until the end of my days.”

“With this kiss,” Robb said as he laid a hand on Margaery’s shoulder, “I pledge my love.” It was as chaste a kiss as Catelyn had ever seen, slightly better than a peck on her lips. Ned had done the same to her, so many years ago. If Margaery was anything like her, she would be disappointed.

Before that very moment, they may as well have been strangers. But as soon as Robb parted from her, they were husband and wife. They were the King and Queen in the North. They turned to face the crowd, and the lords of the North and the Reach applauded.

Despite how heartened she was to see her son wed – to see this alliance cemented, and almost certainly the demise of the Lannisters along with it – she found her gaze lingering on Mace Tyrell. _Are you content with this, My Lord? My son wears a crown of bronze and runes on his head. Do you fashion a different sort for your daughter?_

_Do you imagine a throne, not in Winterfell, but in King’s Landing?_

**THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE**

Astrazys mo Nakloz looked too much like his father for Terzac’s liking. Eanazys of the House of Nakloz had a soft face, whispers of hair clinging to his chin, and fingers as sweet and kind as silk. His son was no different. _The gods fashioned this man, to pour salt into the wound._ “Astrazys,” he said with a kiss to the cheek, “welcome to my home.”

Even his smile was like his father’s. “And I am welcomed. It is too rare for me to visit you, Terzac.” One of the houseslaves, the Tyroshi named Jalemo, offered to take his tokar. Astrazys rolled the garment off of him and handed it to the slave. He did not turn to face the slave. “I heard that your most recent wave of recruits had…startling successes.”

“Feeble words,” Terzac boldly said. “All of the slaves I bought earned their brand.” The smell of the kyeshas flowers filled the air. He had the slaves fill the pools with them, to dilute the stench of sweat that rose up from the training pits.

“Even that dog from the Abyss? I started to fear you were losing your wits when you bought that one.”

“The Dog faced Yarkaz.”

Astrazys stopped in his tracks. “And lived to tell the tale?”

“And _thrived_. The Andal more than earned my mark.” The chimes of training swords could be heard. “Shall we see my bloodsworne at work?”

“Of course,” Astrazys smiled. “Lead the way, Terzac.”

As they reclined on sofas, they feasted off of grapes and sweetwine. A hot wave was rolling through the city, turning all throats into dust. Noble ladies had taken to walking through the city in veils, so as to not have their eyes stung by the dirt. The poor had to make do, their eyes red and watery. Terzac watched as Iorwen dueled with Alasro. The two had fought in Maoko’s Proving, and it was a close contest. But every time since, it was Alasro who proved the victory. Today was no different, and when Qalentos sent Maoko to the ground with a swipe at his leg, the Tyroshi rose up with curses and outbursts.

“You should do what my brother does with his Unsullied. Eunuchs are not so quick to anger.”

“Your Father would often say the same to me.”

“Maybe such words had wisdom?”

Terzac shook his head. “He knew his Unsullied, but I know my bloodsworne. Think on this – what is the greatest asset of the Unsullied?”

Astrazys licked grape juices from his lips. “Their discipline,” he said after a time. “They will never turn from battle.”

“They will never roar out in victory, never taunt, never laugh, and never excite a crowd. I need my bloodsworne to have passion and vigor. The sands of the blood pit must be watered with warm blood.”

“I suppose,” Astrazys shrugged. “That weapon the Andal uses. I’ve never seen the like before.”

“They call it a longsword. It’s used to pierce the heavy armor their knights favor so.”

Astrazys frowned. “There is no grace to it. It doesn’t have the splendor of an short sword, or even an arakh. It’s half the length of a spear!”

Maybe,” Terzac smiled, “but would you have me deny Jon the weapon of his homeland?”

They watched as Jon dueled with Alasro. He remembered how, just a few days before the Proving, the Lyseni easily bested Jon in a training bout. But today, Jon thrashed the Lyseni again and again with a wooden sword modeled after his longsword. “No,” Astrazys said, “I suppose not.” He turned towards Terzac. “Ghezaks po Yieklaz is having a day of games.”

“That slug is always having a day filled with games. What, did he fill another one of his slaves with a child?”

Astrazys laughed, in a way that reminded Terzac far too much of his father. “You are a wry one, Terzac vo Hrasher, do you know that? You should catch his attention, get some of your bloodsworne-“

“I already have. He came to me two days past. I will be showcasing my new bloodsworne in a series of one-on-one matches.”

Astrazys raised his brows. “So soon? Is that wise? I know that Fajzka vo Nulptis trains his for three moons before a single exhibition.”

“And the bloodsworne from the house of Nulptis are more known for the sword between their legs than the ones they wield in their hands. My bloodsworne are not destined for such a sweet life. They need to be bleed early, to feel the rush of human life coursing through their fingers. To hear the exhilaration of the crowd. To feel the sands beneath their sandaled feet. My Alashant shall prepare them well enough.”

“Marsoltor,” Astrazys said with reverence. “Perhaps I should not have doubted this dog you dragged from the Abyss. Marsoltor came from the same place.”

“He was,” Terzac said. “I found a boy so desperate to cling to life. Now he is a man, with fiery reverence etched into his heart.”

“It is a shame, for one such as him to not be able to enter the Pits. He was a Titan, of your house, of this city.”

 _Just as your father, you love to lecture._ “Do not remind me of what he is, Astrazys. I molded him into what he is today. But to return him to the Blood Pits would be a death sentence, and he serves me a thousand times over as Alashant.”

“Well, I suppose the world shall have to trust your judgement.” He raised a wine glass. “You are, after all, the most prestige Blooded house in all of Astapor.”

“A title earned in tears and blood.” Terzac sipped at the drink. The sweetness rushed away the itches that scratched at the back of his throat. “Why did the Senate meet yesterday?”

“Terzac…”

He waved his hand. “I know. My house deals in bloodsworne. I need only be concerned with bringing glory to the gods within the Blood Pits. The Flayed Twins must have their due. But I know that the Senate met last night. Juzalyk no Yahl and Hezakan vo Tehl both declined an invitation from me.Usually if one refuses the other accepts – both love to spectate my bloodsworne. And they will take any excuse to drink from my cellars. Unless they were summoned to the Circle of Masters.” Terzac leaned forward. “It’s the reason you are here now, hrm? As inclined as you are to humor your father’s old friend, you are here to placate me. To not make me think something is afoot. I have the right of it?”

Astrazys was silent.

“Speak to me, Astrazys mo Nakloz. In the name of your father, Hezamys. Speak.”

Terzac could see the doubt in Astrazys’ eyes. His thumb rolled over his wine glass. “You’ve heard about the fire that consumed the estate of the Tahils? Out in the green mountains?” Of course he had. The var Tahils were a prestigious merchant family, dealing in spices and flesh. Their youngest, Sazella, was said to be a great beauty at just four and ten. Astrazys leaned forward, and there was something about his face that sent chills down Terzac’s spine. “It wasn’t a fire.”

Terzac could hear his heart beat. “What are you saying?”

It must have spoken of the gravity of his words, that Astrazys looked around as if he was in a drug den, instead of being in a safe haven. “The house of Tahils was brought down by the sword. Their deaths came from within their walls. Their slaves rose up against them.”

“How can you know this?”

His voice was almost a whisper. “Because my brother, Kraznys, had to send a hundred of his Unsullied in the shadow of night, to quell it. All within the Tahils estate were ripped from this world. Slaves and masters both.”

“They should have been brought to light,” Terzac gritted. “Gutted and crucified. A lesson to be displayed.”

“Or it would have been encouraged,” Astrazys said with doubt. “One was a failed uprising. A second could be a success. Not everything needs to be shown in the day.”

“But why all these secrets, these councils in the night? The rebellion was crushed.”

Astrazys shook his head. “But the source was not, honored Alezek. The Tahils were known to buy new slaves, not born from fettered stock. Cheaper that way.” He scratched at his chin. “Unbroken slaves that dream of freedom. The Circle has been considering placing a temporary ban on importing slaves.”

“ _What_?” That was madness. “We are the sons of Ghis. The gods permit us to chain men to our will, to exhale our children. It is sanctified by Sceptered Lord.”

“And is the Circle also not sanctified? For on the holy day of election, is not every elected official not a demigod, divine blessings coursing through his veins? Are their words not the will of the gods? Would you see Astapor in flame and ruin?”

“Of course not,” Terzac hissed.

Astrazys mo Nakloz laid a firm grip on his shoulder. “Then trust in the wisdom of the Circle. The gods speak through us, truly. It is by their will that we are elected, after all, in the holy month of the Harpy.” Terzac knew that the man was speaking truth, but it all felt so wrong. His gut was twisting on itself. “Besides, nothing was decided. Not yet. The motion failed by a single vote.”

“Please say it was yours.” Astrazys was silent. “This is the lifeblood of our city. Of our culture. Our way of life! This brazen display of weakness will only draw eyes to us. Meereen and Volantis will look on us – and what will they see? Cowering masters afraid of the slaves that wipe their asses?”

“Better afraid and living than dead and proud. But let me give some hope – I have someone who would very much like to see your bloodsworne. Paraszys sol Nierhols was the one that asked I come.” Terzac looked at him, wide-eyed. Paraszys was one of the wealthiest masters in all of Astapor. He, nor his father, nor his father’s father, could not recall a year when a son of Nierhols was not elected to the Circle. Every four years he would throw the largest spectacle in his pit, and every four years all of the Blooded Masters aspired for a place in them. Terzac has never failed to earn a place in Paraszys’ games, but he always had to play by his rules. “He would very much like to come, at your invitation.”

“Paraszys wants to come to my house?”

“He wants to see your bloodsworne.”

 _He can come anytime._ But Terzac knew what Astrazys was saying. He wanted a spectacle to be thrown. Dancers to be summoned, food to be served, pillow slaves to attend to his guests. He wants Terzac to grovel at his feet, to throw dignity and self-pride in the name of being a part of his games.

He forced a smile. _Astrazys is just a pawn. A well-meaning one._ He forced a smile. “How could I refuse? But tell the honored Paraszys sol Nierhols that others are invited as well. His fellow masters of capable standings should behold my bloodsworne. To marvel upon them. Tell him all he needs do is provide me a date, and I will make it one he shall not forget.”

Astrazys smiled. “I have no doubt, Terzac. I remember when I first behold your bloodsworne, when I was just a boy clutching my father’s hand. It can inspire a man. I’m sure Paraszys will be pleased.”

 

**THE SHE-WOLF OF WINTERFELL**

 

Arya Stark had never felt as cold as when she crawled upon the shore, water dripping from her hair, lips shivering, fingers shaking, knees cutting into the sands. Whenever she coughed, she was certain that her bloody heart would end up on the sands. But as she crawled, she coughed, and despite the spears that seemed to rise up in her throat, no heart was spurted onto the sands. Spittle dripped from her lips in thick strands as she forced out all the water. Her arms were shaking from the force of her coughs, and sometimes Arya thought she would fall into the shore and die right then and there.

But she did not. Between each cough, as the world spun around her and the storm thundered behind, Arya crawled. By the time she made her way over the dune, all the sea had left her, and Arya could feel the air fill her lungs. Her eyes were watering, and her fingers felt weak and sore, but those lasted for only a moment.

Arya twisted and fell. She felt the sand pound against her back, dig into her hair, ride up her ankles. She didn’t care. Each breath felt like a pounding drum in her chest.  _The pounding could rip me open, show all my guts to the gulls. Hells of a feast for them._ But despite how raggedly her breaths came, her belly did not split asunder, and the gulls had to go elsewhere for food.

The memories came, after a time. Once it ceased to hurt to draw breath, once the thunder strikes stopped tearing through her chest, and after the roars in her head faded into nothing, Arya could remember.

There was a storm. The wind howled and the thunderclaps could be heard even deep below in the holds where she had hidden with Nymeria. Just as swiftly the storm came, Arya heard the wood split and break, the beams crack and sunder. Then there was the gushing of the water, and Arya was pulled into the sea.

She had no fear in her then. Arya did not have the time to be afraid, it all happened so quickly. Did she scream out? Could she even have the strength, as the storm raged around her, as the two halves of the _Taerthys Sothjor_ descended into the sea?

Arya had no answer. The memories faded as she struggled to her feet. Her bones felt like jelly. Or like brittle ice. It made no difference; she just felt weak all over as she shivered and her teeth clattered inside of her skull. She looked dumbly over the stormy sea. There were no traces of the _Taerthys Sothjor_ , not as far as Arya could make out. No mast, no pole, no sail flapping in the wind. Had she even seen the shore, before the storm broke the cog apart? Arya couldn’t remember.

 _Needle!_ In the madness of the storm, she had forgotten about the sword. Her hands padded her side at a frantic, mad pace. When she felt the round pummel of the thing blade, Arya allowed herself to breathe. _I may have lost my way, but I have not lost Needle._ She smiled for a moment, as her fingers caressed the hilt and pommel.

Then her heart fell. Arya looked around. The dirt around her was pink, and in the distance the mountains were brown and red. “NYMERIA!” She cupped her fingers around her mouth. “NYMERIA!” Her words trembled in her throat, but she sucked in another breath. “NYMERIA!” The name seemed to echo down the shoreline. She couldn’t see the wolf. Her heart was rising into her throat, but Arya didn’t care. She went down the shore, looking for…looking for…she didn’t know. Paw prints, maybe. Wooden planks from the ruined ship, corpses, jewels or crossbows, _anything_.

But all Arya found were the pink slopes of the beach.

She screamed the name again, and again. She almost did it a third time, but pain’s slim fingers rode up her tongue, and Arya found herself hacking, hands pressed on bent knees as the cough shook inside of her throat. She wiped the tears from her eyes. Arya looked towards the horizon, looking over the trees. She was trying to get a sense of where she was.

Arya had no idea where she was.

She turned around. _Where is Astapor?_ She knew that they were going east. East, always east, that seemed like the only course Arya had taken in years. East from King’s Landing, from Myr to Volantis, sailing with the Golden Company, being swept up in a storm on the _Taerhys Sothjor._ Swept onto a beach somewhere between where she has been and Astapor.

She was so much closer to Astapor than she had ever been, but it had never felt further away. _Where are you Nymeria? Are you alive, Jon? Is Khal Drogo dead? Is it a son or a little girl that you hold in your arms? Am I an aunt, or did something happen to Daenerys? Is Robb alive, is Mother well? What has happened to Bran since he woke, and little Rickon…_

 _Sansa._ Arya had given her sister barely a thought for months and months. That had shamed her, as she stood alone beneath the beating sun. Sansa had screamed when Father was killed. It was a howl, long and thirsty. _Do not say you married him, Sansa. Not after all that._ Arya hoped that Sansa escaped, made her way to the safety of Winterfell, but that was a fool’s hope, a desperate dream. She would have prayed for Sansa to be safe…but how could anyone be safe in the lion’s den?

Arya was surrounded by questions, and roads to be taken.  The mountains stretched out, but how far? She could make her way to them, and who knows what she could find? Rivers, bushels with berries, a town…slavers and sellswords that would sell her for a small pouch of silvers. Arya remembered how White Harbor had laid upon the eastern shore. Other villages and cities could do the same in Essos. Fish had to act the same no matter where they were, and fishermen were everywhere.

East, she had to go east, but where was east? _Where is Nymeria? Where is Jon?_

The sun was dancing over the mountaintops. _Would I need to climb mountains to reach Astapor?_ She had heard stories of the Red Mountains in Dorne, how the Vulture King had led out raids from the tunnels and caverns that had been dug into the crimson stones. The first Targaryen kings had to use dragons to lure him out. How deep did the tunnels of these mountains in Essos run? Was there any path to cross over them?

As she pondered, the sun beat down over her head. The freezing waters from the sea had dried out, and Arya could feel the itching trickles of sweat slip down her neck. She turned her head back towards the sea. She almost imagined Nymeria would appear from the sea, furs damp with and clotted. But no wolf emerged from the waves.

Needle was still at her side, against all the odds. She wondered how long she would be alone, just her and Needle, against the deserts of Essos.

It turned out, not long. The sun had risen far above the tips of the red mountains when Arya found a road. It wasn’t like the Kinsgroad, with the paved stones, or the ruins of the dragonroads that brought the Golden Company all the way from Myr to Selhorys. The earth had been pounded into the ground from the trot of horses and wagon wheels.

The lords would routinely send bands of men to patrol the Kingsroad, to keep it safe for travelers and merchants. Arya doubted any of the Essosi magisters would do the same for this trodden path. But it was a road, of a sort, and where else could she go?

Arya followed it. Brown hills rolled in the distance, and the wind howled as loudly as the crowd in Kings Landing. She saw balls of weed roll alongside the path, and tiny scaled beasts called the rocks and prickly plants. Needles grew out from them, a thousand at every bubbly stem. _We don’t need needles. We could just take one of these home, and Sansa would have enough to last her forever._

Trees did grow, but they were a sparse thing. They weren’t like the forests in the Riverlands, where the leaves would be thick enough to block out the sun. The limbs held up massive leaves that casted a long shade, and the bark seemed to have layers that grew out from the trunk.

As the heat sapped her strength, transforming her toes into lead and stuffing her nostrils with a painful warmth, Arya thought to lay in that shade. Only for an hour or so, to regain her strength for the journey ahead. Her stomach had been twisting inside of her, begging for food, and the cool shade would help her ignore the pain.

_But an hour in the shade would keep me from Astapor._

She had reached the mountain passes just as night claimed the sky. The terrible heat gave way to a cold breeze, and the golden hills that rose in the distance became lumps of earth as dark as the night sky. Arya could see a thousand stars in the sky, but she could recognize only a few of them. The King’s Crown and the Ice Dragon she knew at once. Jon had pointed them out to here all the time when she was smaller, and she had never forgotten.

She almost didn’t see the walls of the keep rise up. In the night, the stones were as dark as the sands of the desert, and it almost looked like a part of the mountain. No drum towers rose above the outer walls, but a tower of a more square sort rose from the central yard. Torch lights danced across the black rocks, lighting the fortification into a blaze of orange and gold.

Keep or holdfast, whatever it was, it paled to even the most modest of castles from the North. It looked tiny when compared to the mountains that it was sandwiched between. _Who mans it? Are they friends or foes?_ Arya had thought to look a way around…but the road had led her to this small keep, and to the left and right all Arya saw was sand and rock.

She felt unsure. That was all that she was ever since the storm. _Where are you Nymeria?_ Wherever she was, Arya was on the road to Astapor, and a fort was in her way. She approached the keep. 

As Arya got closer, she could see just how uniformed the keep was. She had half-expected the stones to be a myriad of colors, dark grays and faded reds. But her deceitful eyes showed her yellow stones. Arya could not tell where one stone ended and the other began. If she traced her fingers along the ramparts, would she even feel mortar? _How can the Essosi build castles like this?_

Guards rested lazily against the walls, ungloved hands tightened around the shafts of spear. Arya could not see any coats of boiled leather, not any kind of plate mail or hauberk. Loose garbs cut from some kind of cloth were dyed in bright colors. Wide hemmed trousers were tucked into their leather boots, made from some kind of creature that gave them a red hue.

The one on the left, that sported a moustache that went from his wide nostrils to almost his chin, grunted. “You, girl.”

Arya raised her head. The man’s cheeks were spotted, and his face was wrinkled and sun scarred, but there was a mean look in his eyes. “Aye.”

The one to the right, who was clean shaven and noticeably younger, yawned. He still leaned on his spear to hold him up. “It’s just a girl, Nazak.”

The old man gave the young one a glare. His back was straight, and his fingers tightened their grip on the spear shaft. “What is your business in the Bay?”

“Gods man,” swore the other, “look at her. Were you attacked? You heard what was said about the raiders, Nazak.”

“I wasn’t attacked,” she said quickly. The young guard had a concerned look in his eyes. They were blue. She took a step towards him. “I was on a ship, the _Taerthys Sothjor_ , and there was a storm.”

Nazak the guard didn’t like that one bit. “A ship? The shoreline is most of a day’s walk from here. I see no camel nor sand steed.”

“The sun was up when I washed up,” Arya said.

The old guard narrowed his eyes. “The _Taerthys Sothjor_ , you say. Where did it sail from?”

“Volantis,” she said quickly.

“It sounds Volantene,” the younger said encouragingly. “You can hardly even pronounce it. She _looks_ like someone from Volantis.”

Nazak was not convinced. “Or from the other cities. She could be Braavosi.”

The more they talked, the more worried Arya got. What if they wanted to throw her into the dungeon? They didn’t have a reason. Did they need one? “That doesn’t mean anything,” the younger man said. “Nobody said the bandits were Braavosi.”

“Do you know that? Do you?”

The younger man considered that for a moment. “Yes,” he said with certainty.

The older one fumbled with the spear in his hand. “Girl, you have a name, I trust?”

“Arrie.”

Nazak the Old snorted. “Arrie? That what they call a name where you come from?”

“It’s short for…Arianna. And what’s it matter to you, anyway? I almost died. You going to let some girl die out in the desert?”

“I didn’t say anything about—“

Arya put her fists on her side. “Let me pass through. What is this castle protecting?”

The younger guard looked at Arya. “Castle? This ain’t the savage Sunset lands. We’re a trading fort.”

“All the same, I need to get to a city.” Arianna of Essos wasn’t looking for a passage to Astapor. She just wanted to go home. Arya Stark would need to decide where home was. Volantis was good enough. She could think of a name for the man that would be her father. Whomever he was, he would have been on the seas for a very long time. “Can I pass through?”

“The roads are dangerous.” The old guard frowned as he shuffled his feet. “There have been attacks by bandits from the mountains. The Good Masters have done little to stop them.”

“Little and nothing,” added in the younger guardsman. “A century of Unsullied would do the trick.”

“You won’t go through anyway. The gates are closed.”

Arya chewed her lip. “These gates are open.”

“Yes, _these_ ones, not the ones that lead to the other side. Ever since the attacks by the bandits and raiders, none can pass by the northern gates after nightfall.”

“But I can go into the fort?”

“She can,” nodded the younger guard. “The Captain said nothing of anyone from the southern road.”

The old guard gave out a sour grunt. “Fine. Pass through.”

Arya could feel the weight fly out from her chest. Her boot crunched into the ground…and Arya felt her stomach turn and twist inside of her.  “Food,” she said quickly. “I haven’t eaten since…”

Nazak was rigid. “There is an inn. Do you have money?”

Arya narrowed her eyes. “My ship was torn apart in a storm.” The guard shrugged. Arya passed through the gate. As her stomach performed rolls inside of her, Arya could feel her head wobble. _It’s like the days in the depths of the Red Keep. But I knew those tunnels, and I could slip out to steal apples and bread from the stalls._ Where would she find anything like that in the desert? All she saw for miles were sand and prickly plants.

The outside of the trader’s keep was stone and sand, and there was little difference inside of it. The dirt crunched beneath her feet, and the flickering torches showed the golden stones that the buildings were built from. She saw something that smelled like a stable, and a barracks emerged from the far wall. It was a broad and square thing, with no sign of extravagance. In the center loomed a tall tower, rigid and straight, with dozens of torch-lit windows carved into the stone. Arya wondered if that was where the Captain of the fort resided.

But further down, not far off from where the southern gate surely lied, was a building with shingles cooked from play. A large chimney spewed out a thick column of gray smoke. That had to be an inn. Drawn by the smells of cooked meat, Arya made her way towards the door. It was painted a bright red, once, but now the colors had faded and peeled, showing most of the pale wood beneath.

The fort’s inn was a pale thing when compared to the _Hazy Lens_ in Myr. That inn had two floors, and a bountiful number of tables, and the fire was always roaring. Arya remembered how the smoke would collect at the top of the ceiling, swirling above the patrons and giving the air a thick scent. Whatever the inn at the fort was called, it was half the size of the _Hazy Lens_ , and possessed only a single floor. She could hear the crackles of some kind of fire in the kitchen, but that was the only favor to be said for the small inn on the path to Astapor.

Wrapped around the corner of the room was a counter, the wood well-worn and peeling from the edges. A man was working behind it, pouring some drink into a wooden glass. He was bald, but he made up for it with a poorly shaved beard that hugged his face. Arya could feel the curious stares from the few patrons as she made her way to the counter. “Excuse me,” she said. A fat man in a furred hat gave her a curious look. He ignored her. “I need something to eat.”

The innkeeper gruffly passed the drink to the fat man. “What do you want?” He washed his hand with some cloth. “We have lamb cooking in the fire.”

“I don’t have any money. I have a sword.”

“Does I look like a fence to you?”

“No, I mean I know how to use it.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Is that a threat?”

Arya shook her head. “No! I mean, I can offer…I can do work for some food. I haven’t eaten in a day.”

“Your empty stomach is no concern of mine.” The man gave out a snort. “I pay enough in taxes for the guards to keep me safe.”

Arya felt her dry throat scratch. “Can I have some water then?” Her vision was spinning. She squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in a breath. _As calm as still water._ After she thought on Syrio Forel’s words, she opened her eyes. “Not much. Just a cup.”

“Fine,” he said with annoyance. “If it will keep you content. Your belly aching will scare what little customers I have this night.” He bent down, and Arya could hear the trickling of water. When he stood up straight, there was a tiny mug in his hands, filled with water. It had a milky complexion to it. Arya should have asked where the water had been, but she was too thirsty to care.

She made her way to one of the many empty tables, drowning herself along the way. It didn’t taste any worse than any other water she had supped on before. By the time she sat down, the mug was empty, water was dripping from her chin, and the pounding between her ears was a little bit better.

A sudden wave of dizziness rolled over her. Arya felt her eyes take on a hazy weight, and her head dipped down. She forced herself straight, but the strain of the day became too much. The storm, the heat, the sands that wiped into her hair, the blisters that burned on her feet…Arya felt her head loll, and the sleep took her.

It was the same dream as before. The tree that grew in the distance, ever away, sometimes just by a hand’s reach, and sometimes by leagues upon leagues. The stars were in the sky, so many that Arya could not count them. But they were not silver upon black. The stars were a wild cascade of colors that shone brilliantly against the shadows. Arya could hear the leaves rustling in the distance, and they were saying something. Arya knew it, just as Father always said they would. “If you can listen, you can hear the Old Gods speak. Surely, you can hear them. Can’t you, Arya?”

A sharp sound tore her from the dream. Her head ripped back, and her eyes were wide. She took a quick glance…and saw a wooden plate with a cut of lamb, thinly layered with spice and releasing a thick wave of heat. The sides were black and charred, but her stomach roared at the sight. “I heard you were hungry.” A man stood at the side of the table. His eyebrows were so thick they looked like fuzzy worms, and his dark beard was split into a fork.

Arya almost reached for it, right then and there. But doubt struck her. “What do you want?”

“I was curious about that sword of yours.” He took a seat across from her. “Do you know how to use it?” Arya narrowed her eyes. “You can have the lamb.” The man revealed a fork. Arya thought of asking a question of the man’s intentions, but her stomach was too strong a force to resist. She grabbed the fork out of the man’s hands and carved into the lamb.

“I know what do with it,” she said with a full mouth. She felt the juices flow down her chin. There was a cup of water right next to the plate. She grabbed it and washed the meat down her throat. It was dry, and the spices did most of the work for the chef. But in that moment, the lamb and the cup of water was the most delicious thing in all the world. “Put the pointy end in them.” She wiped the water from her mouth with the back of her hand.

The man looked at her warily. “Whose they?”

“Those that try to hurt me.” She forced herself to smile. “Not those that give me food.”

“That is a relief.”

Arya bit her lip. “Is there a reason why you bought some lamb for me to eat?”

“Because a girl needs to eat. And I can’t ask you questions about that sword of yours if you fall over dead. You look like the devils had their way with you.”

“No devils,” Arya said. “Just a storm.”

The man nodded. “I believe you. Do you have a name?”

“Arrie.” The more she said it, the easier the lie got. “Ariana, if you want to be proper. I was on a ship meant for Astapor when…well, you can guess.”

“My name is Khazan, and I can do more than guess. Almost lost my life to a storm. Swore never to sail the seas again. Not even if it takes me a year to do three cities in the times a ship would hit six.”

“You a merchant?”

He gave a nod. “I am. Carpets from Tyrosh, wine from Lys, and the most exotic inventions from Myr. Expensive to acquire, even more expensive to sell, and all the richer I will be when I go back home to Meereen.”

“Meereen.” The word felt weird she said that. All of the cities in Essos sounded weird. “Is that on the way to Astapor?”

Khazan snorted. “Astapor is on the way to Meereen. I just came back from New Ghis, and I knew I had to come well prepared. Have you heard of the raiders?”

She thought of what the guards at the gate had said. “A thing or two?”

“Past few months, the roads between the great cities of the Bay have been besieged by raiders and scoundrels. No man is safe.”

“I heard the Masters have been greedy. No assistance.”

Khazan scowled. “You heard right. They lie upon their featherbeds atop their pyramids, while the merchants that bring wealth to their cities are besieged. I hired some men to protect me, but they charged double the rates. Fifteen silver harpies, every day, for each man! I could only afford four swords.”

“It’s not safe on the road?”

Khazan shook his head. “Not anymore. Tell me Ariane, how confident are you with that sword?”

“Confident enough. I don’t need your silver.”

The merchant smiled. “I knew investing in some lamb would be worth it. I will give you rations and a small skin of water, every day.”

“And a steed. You can’t expect me to protect you if I am on foot every day.”

Khazan hummed as he tapped his fingers on the table. “Do you know how to ride a camel?”

She was about to make another cut into the lamb, but she stopped herself. “A what?”

 

**THE MOTHER OF DRAGONS**

 

As Dany strode forth on Silver and casted her sight on Ghis, she was impressed. Valyria’s three wars against the empire were well known, and taught well the power of the dragons. After the third war, Valyria chained every man and woman, and transformed the fields into layers of ash, and bellowed their cities with dragon flame. Dany expected nothing but smoldering rock, but as Quaithe lead the way, Dany could see the twisted and struggling ruins, the dark rocks rising above. _It is a living corpse_.

“Khaleesi,” Aggo said. “Do not go into this place. Turn away from here. Only ghosts and demons grace these lands.” Out of all her bloodriders, she thought that Aggo would be the one to be steadfast. But she could hear the shaking in his voice. _I should have brought Ser Jorah. But I trusted him with my son._ She remembered the command she gave to him – three weeks, and then he must ride, to a place where her son would be safe. He, and the dragons, must be protected at all cost. If she cannot put her prince on the Iron Throne, then Ser Jorah shall. At the cost of his own life if needed. But when Aggo looked onto the ruins, the Iron Throne was not on his mind. Fear was consuming him.

Dany could not say that he was wrong. Ghis was nothing but dark stones and gray, cracking earth. In the horizon she could see mountains, as pale as bone, and the sky above was black and twisted. Withered roots squirmed through the broken earth. Agerion curled his tail around her shoulder, and Dany could feel the heat rise from his nostrils.

“Stormborn,” spoke Quaithe as she turned her horse, “if you turn back, you are lost.”

She kicked her heels at Silver’s side. “We go on.” Quaithe led her past trees, with gray bark and leaves as dark as a night’s sky, and past curved walls. Whenever the wind hollowed, dust danced into the air. Gray pillars rose into the air, the stone twisted and melted. They were like fingers, grasping for something beyond their reach. When Dany strained her sight, she could see the remnants of Ghis rise up from the cracked earth.

“There are places in the world,” Quaithe explained, “that are changed. Man performs barbarity, and the ground they do it on are not the same. They are not _just_ of this world. You don’t just walk upon their desecrated earth. Know that such places are thin, where the line between one world and another are not strong. This heart of ancient Ghis, where the Valyrians made their powers known, are such a place. You can feel it. The air is shifting, even now.”

The wind hollowed, and Dany felt a chill in her. “I’m not afraid of ruins.” _I am the blood of the dragon._

Quaithe did not turn to speak. “You should be.” They crossed beneath an arch, the masonry twisted into spirals.

“Is there a secret path I must take? Must I take the right passage, and always only the right? I must always go up, both to enter and to escape?”

She could hear the wind screeching against the stone, and she could hear the wood groan like a dying beast. Quaithe remained silent…for a time. Then they emerged at a massive structure, carved from black stone, and surrounded by the withered remnants of pillars. White wood rose up around the bends of the walls. They trotted along a broken path of cobblestones, the visage of a harpy broken and scattered, and the very earth had eaten away at most of the road.

“What is this place?”

“A place that is kept by the dead. The gods of Ghis once ruled here. But then came the dragons.”

“What will I find there?”

She shrugged, and her golden jewels sung an unnerving hymn. “Illusions. Lies. Truth.”

“Is it safe?”

“The path of power is never safe.”

For a shadow of a moment, Dany considered turning away. She looked at the massive wooden gates. They were pale, like a moonlit beam. _They are the flesh of Jon’s gods. The weirwood trees are guiding me here. I cannot turn back, or I am lost._ She dismounted from Silver, careful to not allow Agerion to lose his grip. “What must I do?”

“That remains to be seen.” Quaithe turned towards Aggo. “Where she goes, she goes alone.”

“Blood-of-my-blood, do not listen to the witch. Let me go with you into this place of shadows and death.”

“Aggo,” she commanded, “there are places where a khaleesi must go alone.” She looked down to the faithful direwolf that was at her side. She could feel her dragon cling to her. “Ghost and Agerion will be with me. You will wait here for my return.”

“For how long, Khaleesi?”

“For an hour. A day. A year. For all of eternity, until I return.” Aggo bowed his head respectfully.

Quaithe pulled something out of her sleeve, and Dany saw that the Shadowbinder’s gloved fingers were clutching a vial. The glass was small and thin, almost like a crystalline tear. “What is that?”

“This,” she said as she uncovered the vial, allowing a thin mist to be released into the air, “is the Milk of the Stars. Distilled from the Night Gardens of Asshai, the waters are cool and refreshing, bitter and foul, wonderful and horrid.”

“Am I meant to drink this?”

“Daenerys Stormborn,” Quaithe said, “the Milk is not meant to quench your thirst. It is a feast for the eyes.”  And Daenerys gasped out as Quaithe pulled her by the hair. Quaithe tilted her head back, her gloved fingers wrapped around her silver hair. She poured the pale blue waters down Dany’s eyes, and she felt pain ripple through her. Quaithe let go, and when the vial broke on the ground, it was like a thousand steel swords were drawn at once. Dany staggered as she gasped out, the palm of her hand pressing into her eye, her other hand reaching for a pillar to hold onto. Her eyes were closed, she could feel the stinging of the Milk slip through the slits, but she still saw an array of colors. Green and purple and silver and gold and red and black all swirled together.

Then the pain ceased its echo, and Dany opened her eyes. The Milk trailed her face like tears. When she turned she saw that Aggo had an arakh to Quaithe’s throat, but she was as still as a statue.

“Let her go,” Dany croaked. She took in a breath, straightened herself, and clenched her fingers at her side. “Let her _go_ , Aggo.” The Dothraki hesitated for a moment, but he lowered his blade. “What now?”

“Proceed through the weirwood gate. We shall be here when you return.”

Dany wiped at her eyes, scratching to get the last of the burning milk out. She could still feel a pounding, _throm, throm,_ a beating in her skull. She approached the door, crossed over stumbling steps, and she could see no singe, no mark of ruin, no sign that they were touched by dragonfire. _It’s so queer. I stare at the door, and it seems untarnished. But how can wood resist what can melt even stone?_ Carved into the door were two harpies, their talons entangled, one set of wings overlapping the other.

She gave a push, and the wood screeched against the stone. She did not look back as she stepped into the darkness.

For a moment, it was all darkness that she could see. A darkness so deep that it seemed to swallow all else. But then she could see something swirl, a dark coloring that was lighter than the darkness she had found herself in, and the light grew brighter and stronger, beat by beat, until she could see. 

The hall of stone rippled, and the bright flames lit by the braziers danced high into the air, and whenever Dany took a step the pearled floor rushed like gentle waves on the shore. The shadows moved on the wall. One moment, a dragon, the next men in legion, and then harpies screeched inside her mind.

Six times, three times three, go from one long hall to the next. Each hall had the dancing shadows, the floor that rippled like water, and the bright flames, and none had ever differed. Again and again she went through the halls - first at a gentle pace, then with a sense of urgency, and finally in a full on sprint. She felt her fear creep on her, the fear that she will die wandering those halls forever, the fear that she would never see her son again, that Jon shall never caress her cheek, she will never laugh or cry and know only _fear_.

The first door was filled with jewels, the second was carved from black stone, the third was crimson, worms had eaten away at the fourth, the fifth was painted with stallions, and the sixth was forged from iron. The first door was the easiest to push – it was built on air and hinged on silk it moved so sweetly. The final door forced Dany to put all her shoulder and strength into it.

When it opened, Dany fell face first into sand. Waters by the sea caressed her fingers. When she lifted her head, she saw in the distance a lemon tree. Resting upon a hill was house built from oakwood, and fastened with a brilliant red door.

Dany felt her lips quiver as she raced to her feet. Agerion flapped his wings over her, and she felt Ghost nuzzle to her side. _This cannot be real._ But it was – she remembered the heat of the Braavosi summer, the feeling of wet sand sticking between her toes, and how high the tree rose over the beach. She approached, and saw someone resting beneath it. Jon was there, his naked skin baked under the sun, and without flaw.

“Daenerys,” he smiled at her. Their son was on his lap, and he was pulling on Jon’s gentle fingers. “Come, and rest here.”

It was Jon. His dark hair was blown in the wind, and his gray eyes were kind and inviting. Her beautiful Daemon was giggling in Jon’s arms. She took a step forward. A large gray house was in the distance, just over a hill. Its red door was calling to her. She wanted to pull Jon up from the sands and walk through that door. Dany stepped forward, her feet sinking into the sands. Jon offered his arm, strong and clean and free of strife. She stayed where she was. “Jon, what is our son’s name?”

He looked at her.

“You are not here. You are in Astapor. I will find you. I will save you. But you are _not_ Jon.” Jon stood up and reached for her, but Dany turned and ran.

She ran from the beach, and the sands became cold and darkened stones, the bright sun became a cold and desolate wind. She ran past walls with animal carvings, roaring dragons carved into stone, and great kings with talons resting on their thrones. Every torch was sniffed out as she passed, and all Dany knew was the darkness.

Then Dany felt a door, and Ghost and Agerion followed her. A naked woman laid against a table with her legs spread, and Dany watched as a man filled her. His hair was bright and golden, but his hands were misshapen, and all of his breaths felt desperate. The woman’s breasts were felt by two others – one had hair as bright as fire, while the other had skin that was peeling off of him. She could see flakes of skin pile around his bloody feet.

The men stared at her, while the woman said nothing. She opened her mouth, and yet she did not scream. Dany turned and ran down dark halls.

On a throne of roots was entangled a man, with skin as pale as milk, and with an eye as red as blood. Where the other eye should have been, there was only a gaping hole. “Wrong,” he seethed, “Rhaegar had it all wrong. Shiera, do you hear me? A wolf and a dragon. For their dynasty, we need ice and fire.”

In the distance, a black wolf howled out fumes of pale smoke, and the sound filled her with fear. A black dragon dressed like a mummer bowed low. A wolf consumed in flame howled in agony, and Dany felt tears well up in her eyes.

Stumbling before her was a man with hair of silver and gold, eyes with lilac, dressed in a dark robe, and through his heart was a golden sword. He seemed not to care as he turned his head. “Fire and ash. That is what I will give Robert Baratheon.” The crown on his head burst into flames, and the skin was melted from his face. “Let him be king of the ashes.”

Then she saw another, resting in a tower. At first she was certain he was Viserys, but his face was too calm, and too old, to be the brother that protected her in Essos. In his hands were a harp, the wood carved into dragon wings. Behind him, laying on a bed of pillows, was a woman, with dark hair and pale flesh. Her eyes were iron and gray. “The song does not belong to her, but to her brother Aegon, and his is the song of ice and fire.”

“Her?” the woman questioned. “You are so certain of your Visenya, but I pray every day for a Brandon. What of the songs that _I_ sing, Brandon, a song of iron and earth? What of the vengeance that I pray of every day, vengeance for what your family did to mine?”

“Enough.” The man with lilac eyes turned from the woman, and Dany felt him staring into her. “Do not speak of such foolishness. All will be well, when I return from the Trident. The dragon must have three heads, and our Visenya shall be the third.”

“No,” the woman said, as she faded. “May he be a wolf, and all his friends loyal, and his love more true than you.” Her voice was a whisper. “May he be none of what you are.”

Rhaegar did not hear her. Or perhaps he did not care. His fingers took to the strings of silver, and he made sweet music. Then the whole world melted away; gone was the tower, and Rhaegar, and the woman, gone were their words and talks of the three heads. Now Dany felt harsh earth scratch at her feet, and brutal wind that howled in her ear. Around her were a dark skinned people, chained and fettered, _cha-tung_ sang their manacles. _Cha-tung, cha-tung._ And high above, Dany heard thunder. _But there is no water. Where is the storm?_ When she looked up, she saw translucent wings, and the lords that rode them. She saw a hundred dragons. Dany turned, and saw the Empire of Ghis rise up in flames.

The fire came to her like a wave. In it she saw a man, but the crown was heavy on him, and the flames of his heart were spent. At his side was a woman, with hair of flames and clothes of fire, and her heart was a dark and burning. Beyond them was another, with a single eye, and his face was nothing but tentacles. He rested on a throne of swords, dripping with blood, and when he opened his mouth Dany saw a thousand tongues.

Then the flame died.

For the first time in years, in all of her life, Dany felt cold. Not the cold of fear, not the void of warmth, but the frost that bit at your bones. The cold seeped into her flesh. She was surrounded in snow, and high towers grew from the endless white. Dany wrapped her arms around herself, desperate. Her toes curled into her sandals.

“You should not be here,” spoke a voice. Dany turned and saw a man with black hair and a knife in hand. At his feet were piles of sharpened wood, and Dany could see a weirwood tree looming over them all. The face in the tree wept red tears. “He should have let me gone. I was his brother. I promised I would kill them and keep us free.”

“Who?” she asked.

“The King of the North. Only three dragons were brought, all that was left in the world. Arrows from our gods would have killed them. But my brother denied me.” And then the man looked up from his work. “He denied me you. You would not be here, nor your father or any of your forefathers, if he had only said yes.”

The man’s eyes were dark and fierce. “Your brother was the last king of the North. He was Torrhen.”

“And I was Brandon Snow.” His knife sliced along the wood, turning it sharp. “Three arrows, for three dragons. I would have crossed at night, and put an end to your dragons forever. But instead of sending me with bow and quiver, he sent me with an oath of fealty and surrender.”

Dany shivered. Her fingers quaked. “How easily the dragon forgets,” spoke Brandon as he carved. “You have blood of the First Men in you, and you _shiver_.” Ravens were nestled on the branches of the weirwood tree, and they screamed at her. _Dragon, dragon, DRAGON_. “My brother let us be conquered by those that let their sons grow without a father.”

“I won’t,” her teeth clattered, “let Jon die in Astapor. I _won’t_.”

Brandon Snow looked at the arrow in his hands. “Words will not return him to you.” Dany felt something warm at her back. She turned, and beyond the swirling storm she saw a sliver of light. Agerion seeped his claws into her leather. She looked back to Brandon Snow, but he and all of his arrows were gone.

Dany stumbled into the light, and she found herself falling into the earth. She heard the howls of the wind, and clouds of ash flew into the air. Dany looked up and saw Quaithe. “Have you found your answers, Stormborne?”

She was silent for a very long time. Then Daenerys Targaryen rose up amidst the ashes of ancient and glorious Ghis. “Answers found me.” _Answers and illusions._


	15. The Blood Gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys confronts the Good Masters. The battle has turned in Westeros. Everything changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would wish to read this chapter with a soundtrack, you can do so here: http://wp.me/P7Obn3-4F.

**XIV**

**THE BLOOD GATE**

**THE WOLFGUARD**

When Jory looked over the misty horizon, he could see the Red City. The pink walls that surrounded the city seemed capable enough, but the black pyramids that belonged to the masters towered over them all. Talrios Fregar said that at night, the Masters lit silk lamps, and the city would be aglow with the orange glow. A pretty sight, to be sure, but Jory doubted that would loosen the nervous coil in his stomach.

Merchant cogs littered the ports. The thundering strike of irons rang over the waves of the sea. _Cha-kunk, cha-kunk._ The people that littered the bay were like ants at this distance, but in his mind they were as clear as day. Men and women strangled by irons around their throats, lagging with the iron that tightened around their legs, their gaze downcast from the weight of it all.

He could almost see children being sold as cattle, and _that_ made him ill. A dizziness came over him. He tightened his throat and crossed his arms over his chest, and he forced himself to take a few, steady breaths. The lightness passed, but the coil in his stomach seemed to curl the closer the _Unbroken_ drew to the city.

Jory looked to Alyn and Harwin. There was a hard, determine look in both of their eyes. But there was a small flicker of realization as well. _Jon is there, as is his Targaryen girl and their child. Surrounded by slavers, the scum of the world._ The plan had seemed so simple, until they saw the walls of Astapor grow form and shape and become real. Jory had not expected the city to be so large, for there so many possibilities. The questions rushing through his head were overwhelming.

He had been dizzy many times, ever since Astapor came into view. Jory blamed it on the air.

They were supposed to have arrived three days past, but they were not blessed with strong winds. The second day at sea, they were stilled. The _Unbroken_ was a galley with two-hundred oars to slice through the waters, and with just as many strong men to wield them. But it was too much to expect two-hundred to beat their wooden blades into the water day and night. They had to wait out the winds, and the impatience Jory felt was insatiable.

He had not realized it at the times, but it was a blessing. The longer they delated, the longer they did not need to hear the clanking of irons; not need to behold men being tendered for coin; not feel the coiling in his gut at the realization that a blood of Stark was not born in the comforts of Winterfell, but within the pink walls of Astapor.

“Does this Khal Drogo have a banner?” Harwin was leaning over the rail, his sharp eyes focused.

Jory shrugged. “I don’t know the way of these horse lord.”

“He should,” Harwin persisted. “If he conquered the city, Astapor would be covered in banners of the horse. But I see nothing.”

Harwin’s logic was sound. The Essosi don’t have sigils for their houses, nor do they have words to boast of the pride in their blood. But the Dothraki were not like the Braavosi, or the Myrmen, or the Lyseene, or the Volantenes, or the whole of the continent. Khal Drogo could very well have a banner of some sort.

 _He would have a banner. He would have an insignia. He would be too full of himself from wedding the last Targaryen princess to not have some banners stitched and sewn._ But the city was not adorned in any such banners. It had no marks of ruin. Not one pyramid was smoldering, nor did any dead hang from the walls. No evidence, no sign, that Khal Drogo had taken the city.

Astapor was a glimmering, pristine red stone set against the sea. Khal Drogo had failed.

Talrios Fregar emerged from below, his blue wig snuggly fit on his bald head. Jory had to credit the man, he knew how to transform himself. The first day he saw Talrios with his wig, Jory nearly choked on his eel. The Braavosi had a ridicules swagger to him before, but with the wig, Jory could hardly recognize the man. “Look at me, sons of Westeros. No longer am I a Braavosi ready to fight the evils of slavery. Now, I am a Tyroshi, who is all too happy to partake in it. None would think twice.”

“Except,” Alyn said, “why would a couple of Westerosi be in the company of someone from Tyrosh?”

Jory would never forget the man’s smile. “Who says you are from Westeros?”

It took Alyn only a moment to realize. “No.”

“Oh yes. Tell me Jory, would you prefer green hair…or blue?”

Jory had smelled the dead, at Pyke, and that was still the worst thing he had ever smelled. But the dyes came in at a close second. Talrios bestowed one of the sailors with the unenvious task of rubbing the dye into their hairs. Jory wondered if the dye was made out of bedrock. It sure felt like it, as it scrapped through hair and scalp alike.

“I look like I am wearing seaweed,” he said when a mirror was held up for him.

“Isn’t one of Lord Manderly’s grand-daughters hair dyed green?” Harwin hushed Alyn at that.

They were all mummers, each and every one of them. They would be like the shadowcats of the Vale, prowling beneath the sight of the Masters. When the Astapori looked upon the _Unbroken_ , they would see a simple trading cog, its crew an unassuming collection. It had cargo of spices, rugs, and incense. Profitable to be sure, but rather bland and would not warrant another glance. The Masters of the city would not know that the cog was built for war, that the crew were sellswords, and the cargo was a cover for the purpose of bringing slavery low.

Still, there was an issue that needed to be addressed, and no amount of subterfuge could ever conceal it.

“Whatever happens, I will do the talking,” Talrios had instructed. “I am the best at Valyrian. I know the language as well as the Common Tongue. The rest of you, do your best to not get involved in conversation. Jory Cassel, I know you are noble born. You must know some of the tongue?”

“A few words. Just enough.”

“Not in Astapor. You are second best. Be quiet unless spoken to. Harwin, Alyn, you both tie for third beast. Keep those screamers of yours from howling.”

Alyn and Harwin shared a look. “I don’t know any Valyrian,” Alyn said.

“That’s why you two are third best. Keep quiet.”

Jory could not find it in him to trust the First Sword. He doubted he ever would. All he knew of the man was that he served the Sea Lord in all things. The problem was, what did Tormo Fregar truly want? For all his boasts of wanting the end of slavery, Jory had trouble believing it. It is one thing to lay siege to a city. Jory had seen it done when the Iron Islands raised their ships in rebellion. But to demand slavery be abolished?

As much as he would like to otherwise, he could not see it done. And how Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen played into it all was still a mystery. How were they the key to it all? When the _Unbroken_ was left windless, Jory had nothing but time. And he spent all that time thinking on a solution to that riddle – and he came up with nothing. _Those brothers want to end slavery. Tormo Fregar put his fortune to the task of it._ Jory should trust someone with such a noble goal. Every bone in his body said to keep both of the Fregar brothers at a sword’s length distance. Jory knew he had to rely on the First Sword.

_Contradictions rule me._

“We only have a few weeks,” cautioned Tormo. Astapor was growing closer and closer. They would reach the harbor within the hour. “I have no doubt that my brother was delayed as well. Still winds stop a navy just as easily as a single cog. Once we reach the port, our task is to reconvene with our mutinous sellswords. You lot will love Daario Naharis – he is a scoundrel and a liar. He’ll fit right in.”

“Charming,” said Harwin.

“The _Unbroken_ will stay a day, maybe two. Enough time to sell off the cargo. It does need to feint being a merchant cog, after all. It’s widely apparent that Astapor has not fallen to the Dothraki.”

Alyn frowned. “So why bother even sailing in, then?”

“Simple,” smiled the Braavosi. “To spew chaos. Now, prepare your senses. Astapor is a siege on those that do not call it home.” Jory did not understand his meaning, until they stepped onto the dock. The thick scent of brimstones washed over them, choking the breath out of him, and Jory realized all too well. As they stepped off of the vessel, Jory gagged, and he felt a hot sting in his eyes. “It’s the bricks,” Talrios explained. “The wind pulls layers from the bricks of the city and sends it right into your face. Not to mention, the monuments are hammered from bronze. The odor is terrible.”

_Astapor is no city. It is one of the seven rings of the abyss._

The entrance of the city was towered by bronze harpies, their wings outstretched and their talons reaching for one another. “Sons of Westeros, remember who you are.”

“Of course we know,” Alyn said. There was pride in his voice, and despite the redness of his eyes, they glimmered. “We are of the North.”

“No!” Talrios grabbed Alyn by the collars and pulled him close. “You have never been to Westeros. For all you know, it is ruled by savages like the Dothraki. To you, slavery is the most natural thing in the world. You will not flinch at a child being dragged by a chain. A cursory glance, nothing more. We may see slaves being crucified, for the unbearable sin of being defiant before their masters. If you see such a sight, _smile_. Do you hear me, Tyorshi? You will be glad. Tell me it will be so.”

Alyn was quiet for a long time. “It will be so.” But words are nothing compared to deeds, and it took all Jory possessed to uphold the mummery. Naked children were pushed onto platforms, women were haggled like meat, and men struggled to keep a fat master aloft in his liter. Jory gritted his teeth so hard he feared they might break. But he did not scream.

Talrios made Alyn promise that he would smile at the sight of a crucifixion. Fortune must have shined upon the boy, for they saw no slaves being nailed to crosses. They did see slaves being constrained in cages. The bars were wrapped so tightly, Jory imagined they were only meant to hold two, perhaps three. He often saw four or five being held within, their legs dangling, fingers grasping into the air. For what, Jory could not say. The winds of Astapor would have no release for them. Only death would be so kind.

Jory would turn his sight away, but he could still hear them. The gasps of pain, the begging of release. Some of their lungs were so hoarse, they could not even usher words. Only groan and breath, and hope that their time was close at hand.

“Where are we going, Talrios?” _Keep talking. It will keep you from puking on the streets._

“Someplace safe.” There was no smile on his face.

It was not long for them to find the sanctuary that Talrios had promised, although it hardly looked as such. The apartment was made from brown stones, rain licked and worn, and was a tall and thin thing squeezed between two much larger buildings. Jory could see curtains swaying in the harsh breeze, but they were moth eaten and well worn.

At some point, the apartment was besieged by dust. And the dust won. The moment that Talrios unlocked the door and swung it open, Jory watched the dark gray particles dance in the air. He nearly coughed up his lung as he staggered through the doorway.

Talrios cleared his throat. “It is not much,” he admitted, “but it is a roof over our heads.” His boots straightened out a moldy carpet. Jory could hear the scurrying of mice, and when he finally got the dust out of his eyes, he could see thick cobwebs that plagued the corners. “We won’t be here long,” Talrios insisted. “Just long enough.”

“For what?”

Talrios only coughed in reply. But Jory was committed to knowing the strengths of their hideaway. The flaws were apparent as day, but soldier made the best out of his circumstances.  At the very least, Jory hoped that the cushions and mattresses would be accommodating.

His hopes were quickly dashed. Jory doubted that the pillows ever had a single feather in them, because they were as stiff as stone. And even then, the fabric had so much dust, it was coated into a thick layer. It may as well have been a coating of skin. _If I slept here, I’d have to scrub the dust off so furiously I may tear off the dye from my hair._

The sanctuary fell short as a place of comfort, and as a way to hold off the enemy. The corridors were wide as wide as tree trunks. If the Masters sent collared soldiers on them, they would have no hope in a pitched fight. There could be hope to escape…but to leap from the windows would be death. The only thing to cushion the fall was the hot, pink roads of the city. Jory thought that perhaps the doors could be braced, but the wood was too rotted. In some he saw maggots squirming from hole to hole. 

But Talrios Fregar said that they would not linger long. A sanctuary that would be short lived.

He was not wrong.

As the sun set on the second night, they came. They were wrapped in traveler’s cloaks, their faces veiled by the cloth. To Jory’s mind, they could not have looked more suspect. “I thought my fellow Braavosi favored more luxurious accommodations.” When he tore off his cloak, and revealed a bushy beard of red and gold, Jory knew the man for the Titan’s Bastard. “Then again, I see only one Braavosi, and the rest are cunts from Westeros.”

“Watch your tongue,” growled Harlin.

“Let him roll his tongue,” said Talrios. He was laying on a sofa, his feet raised high on a stool. “Little harm in it. But he should know who controls the weight of his purse.”

“That would be me,” Mero smiled. His teeth might as well have been daggers. “The Second Sons always get their gold.”

“From their employer, or otherwise.” A man with wrinkled skin pulled back the hood of his cloak. His hair was as white as snow, but his flesh was sun licked and spotted. “Your title is well earned, Bastard.”

Mero narrowed his eyes. “As is yours, Prince of Tatters. You speak as if you have teeth of gold. Do you piss wine as well?”

“I think not,” came a third. “But will my golden teeth suffice?” The man’s hair was blue, and Jory would have called him absurd if he did not recall what color his hair was dyed. But at least he had not dyed his beard gold, unlike the newest arrival. And just as he claimed, some of his teeth did shine with a golden glow.

“Enough for all of us, Daario,” said Talrios. “Meero, Tattared Prince, Daario Naharis, met Jory Cassel.”

The Tattered Prince raised a pale eyebrow. “And who is he to us?”

“A son of Westeros, who is the head of guards for Lord Stark of Winterfell.”

The commander of the Stormcrows and the Second Sons look bewildered. But it was the Tattered Prince that spoke: “I heard he admitted to treason.”

“Lies,” Jory insisted, “made at the point of a blade. All to save his daughters.”

The Prince smiled. “I also heard the same. What brings you to among the company of revolutionaries and sellswords, Jory Cassel?”

“The son of my lord. Jon Snow. Perhaps you heard of him, since you did ride under the banner of Khal Drogo?”

“Rode,” said Daario Naharis, “without a doubt. Fought? Well, that is another story. Even if we were paid to sabotage the Golden Horde, there was little fighting to be done. A miracle for a Dothraki warlord.”

Mero’s smile grew even wider. “Felled by trees. Khal of Khals my cock. One burned forest and Drogo didn’t know what to do with himself.”

“He let himself be devoured by beasts,” smiled the commander of the Stormcrows. “That was something.”

“Not what he wanted, I am certain.” The Tattered Prince began to peel his glove off. “I imagine he had bigger ambitions than to be food within a lion’s gut.”

“But that worked in our favor,” said Talrios Fregar. “Now, I believe Jory Cassel asked something of Jon Snow?”

“Dead,” said the Bastard, “from what I heard.”

Jory sucked in a breath. _Jon is dead? No._ He remembered watching Harwin guide Jon and Robb on ponies when they were just lads, and Jon never complained that his brother was the better lance.

“From the mouth of whores with sawdust between their legs, no doubts.” There was a rogue’s smile on the lips of Daario Naharis. “What Mero _should_ be saying is that nobody has heard of Jon Snow.”

“Or the Targaryen,” spoke the Tattered Prince. There was a knowing look in his eyes as he stared at his fellow mercenaries. “I did hear that this Jon Snow inflicted a most grievous wound on Bloodbeard.”

 _Bloodbeard? What kind of name is Bloodbeard? Someone that sprung up from a children’s song?_ “Who is that?”

“Someone,” said the Prince, “that is more of a scoundrel than these two at my side. If I found this Snow, I would kiss him. And find a place for him among the Windblown.”

“Even this Daenerys?” smiled Daario. “Where would you ever fit a Targaryen among your ranks? I hear hew they were…close.”

“Wherever I could. The world itself owes that Andal a debt.”

There was a wry smile on Daario Naharis. “I wonder what you would do if he killed Bloodbeard for you.”

“Raised him to be my successor.” For a moment, Jory thought the man was joking. But the Prince’s eyes were sure and stalwart.

“So Snow and the Targaryen girl,” said Talrios, “both are missing. Is that what you are saying?”

There was a darkness to Mero’s smile, and Jory liked it not one bit. “Indeed. What a shame. I would have kept Daenerys Targaryen warm and safe.”

Harwin scowled at that, and going by how Alyn shifted in his steps, even he understood the dark implication. _This Titan’s Bastard is a scoundrel. He has a sellsword’s honor…which means, none at all. None of them can be trusted._ Only so long as the coin flowed would the mercenaries follow the Braavosi’s command. For weeks Jory thought that the Fregar brothers were unworthy of trust…but compared to these sellswords, they were Aemon the Dragonknight.

“Not all hope is lost,” said Daario Naharis behind his golden teeth. “There are talks of a Black Hound in the bloodpits?”

“Bloodpits?” Harwin’s brows were furrowed. “Sounds like a place for sacrifice.”

“Of a kind,” answered the Tattered Prince. “The bloodpits are a place for…bloody spectacles. The bloodsworne are slaves trained to fight, and murder, one another in the face of the crowd and their masters. The Flayed Twins are said to feast upon the blood of the fallen.” There was a sickened look on Alyn. “One of the gods of Ghis,” continued the commander. “Blood and lives are their demands, and the three sons of Slaver’s Bay are too happy to give it to them. If not in glorious combat, then in other means.”

“The other day, three boys were fed to a bear.” Mero shook his head. “They were all limp. It was a poor sport. The boy I placed my coin on was the first to get eaten.”

Alyn sucked on his teeth and struggled to keep his fingers from forming into a fist. Harwin laid a steady hand on the boy’s shoulders, and growled some words into his ear. Both kept a fierce glare on the Titan’s Bastard. Telrios Fregar shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, shuffling dust into the air.

“This Black Hound,” Jory said quickly, “what do you know of him?”

“Little,” said Daario Naharis. “We are not spies, after all. We sell murder, not words. But going off of what my men whisper, and my men only know what they hear in the pillow houses, it is that he is a fellow Westerosi. Probably considered Robert Baratheon king.”

“Or Aerys,” said Harwin.

“Perhaps,” said the Tattered Prince, “but I have heard the same. He speaks with your accent, Andal.”

“Like a Northman?”

“Like a Westerosi.” _These Essosi don’t know the difference between how one sounds from the Reach and from Dorne or Winterfell. Still, it’s a start._ “He was bought from the Abyss.” The three Northmen shared a confused look. “Something like the bloodpits, but worse. Reserved for only the most decrepit of criminals.”

“What could be worse than a place where boys are fed to bears?” Disbelief weighed on Alyn’s words.

“The Abyss,” insisted the Prince. “A realm of chaos. Doubt me if you want, but there are laws in the bloodpits. The Abyss has none. One in a hundred survive their first match. Out of a hundred of those, only one will survive the day.”

“And the Hound,” said Mero, “thrived there for weeks.”

 _The Starks do not go silently._ “And this Hound…where is he now?”

“Bought by Terzac vo Hrasher,” the Prince said. “Of all the families that train bloodsworne for the Pits, the Hrashers are the most renowned. Their bloodsworne are the most disciplined, they have earned the greatest honors, and they are the envy of the entire city. If the Hound is your lord’s son, he is in a good place.”

“Can he be bought?” The idea of partaking in slavery disgusted Jory, but if it would save Jon Snow…

“Not likely.” Daarop Naharis pulled at his golden beard. “A bloodsworne is an investment. They are not just mere slaves. You could give an offer, but it would likely be too low for Terzac. Unless you have a fortune that you are willing to share with us?”

“Such fortunes are with my brother,” Talrios said harshly, “and I would remind you commanders that you are well compensated for your services.”

“And promise of more,” smiled Mero, “when Astapor is in ashes.”

“Yes, that was the promise. First the gold, then the destruction of the Masters. That ultimately is why we are here. Did you stuff your pay into your ears, or have you information?”

Mero scratched at his beard. “Once again, the Second Sons come before the others. I have the key to the end of the Masters. Tell me, Telrios Fregar, have you ever been to an opera?”

 

**THE SHE-WOLF OF WINTERFELL**

 

If there was a beast more foul than a camel, Arya wished she would never meet it. It wasn’t that she could not ride the smelly, hairy thing that tended to spit at her whenever it had a chance to. In some regards, it was no different from riding a horse. But the camel – whom Khazan insisted was named Tupu, but Arya would sooner call Stupid – reeked of the stables in the Red Keep. How one animal could smell as badly as a dozen horses was beyond Arya.

And that was, by far, the worst thing about the journey. It had been three days since they had left the Khazadgar Fort, and nothing had happened. That put Arya more on edge than anything else. When she was with the Golden Company, she trusted no one. Not Myles Toyne, who had a ruffled kindness to him that made him a kindred spirit to Ser Rodrik, not the charming smiles of Lysono Marr, nor the eyes of Septa Lemore that reminded Arya too much of Mother, and certainly not Rhaegar’s son. But as she travelled with the small merchant train, Arya felt too secure for her own liking. Khazan was quick to smile and engage in conversation. “We need to pass the time somehow,” he had said when Arya tried to brush him away. Takazar from New Ghis ignored the others entirely, while the Tyroshi Narasio was quick to smile and laugh, and the twin swords Hulgor and Talmen were quick to jest with just about everyone. Themselves in particular. They were always laughing at some joke that was ushered in a small snicker between them.

It was all too calming for her own good. Day after day, nothing of note happened. Besides a horse being startled by a particularly strong breeze, it was a dull and uneventful journey. Something that any man could ask for. Boring and safe. Father would have approved of it immensely.

Arya liked it not one bit.

At first, she was concerned that the sell swords would ask questions about how a girl of six-and-ten years could know anything about holding a sword. But that seemed not to strike any of them odd. “I once saw a girl just on the cusp of being ten years old, kill a man with a crossbow.” Narasio rubbed at his nose as he said that. “Of course, that was before someone else put a bolt in her. No reason why a girl can’t kill as easily as a man. It’s said some of Those-Without-a-Face are women. Or men that become women.”

“Or women that become men!” shouted Hulgor.

“All the same,” Narasio said. “Although, your breasts could get in a way of armor, I suppose.”

Arya felt her cheeks flush at that. “My…chest wouldn’t have a damn thing to do with it!”

Talmen let out a laugh. “Har! She’s got you on that one, Tyroshi. Breasts are as soft a feather pillow. They aren’t made from iron.”

“Of course you would know that,” Hulgor smiled. “Mother said you sucked on her twice as hard as I did.”

“I always did have a thing for milk,” he said with pride. “There’s a reason I invested in a good goat. Not even Lyseni Silver can compare.”

Khazan looked as if he had seen a ghost. “Take that back. Lyseni Silver is the finest drink on this side of the world.”

“I will not. Milk is the nectar of the gods, and I will take such words to my grave.”

And for days, that was the closest thing Arya had to an argument. It wasn’t even an argument, not a real one. Sansa screaming something stupid, that was an argument. You don’t _laugh_ after an argument, and nobody is supposed to smile. Arya thought that was supposed to be a good thing – she didn’t have to be on her toes, not need to fear someone would stab her in the back for whatever reason.

They all just wanted to get to where they needed to be. It was a very practical relationship. _So why am I so nervous?_ She looked into the mountains, expecting the fabled raiders to ride down and fill them with arrows. But they never came, and Arya had to contend herself with the banter of the sellswords, and the warm conversations of Khazan the Merchant.

She supposed that was the worst thing about it. The man just didn’t know how to stop talking, and Arya didn’t know how to tell him to shut up. “So how did you end up as a sailor?”

Arya looked down on him. The camel was taller than the sand steed, but Khazan said that his horse could outlast any of the destriers bred in the Free Cities. None had the ability to outlast a camel, he insisted, but they were temperamental. Not like Arya hadn’t experienced that first hand. “What makes you say that?” She tried to make it sound a jest, to hide the fear that was creeping up her throat.

“You were shipwrecked.”

 _He has good eyes, this Ghiscari._ “You’re not wrong.”

“By your looks, you could be from Volantis. Your dark is not quite dark enough, but you do not have anywhere close to the looks of a Tyroshi, and pardon me for saying so, you do not possess the beauty of a girl from Lys. Even the smallfolk there have the looks of the dragonlords of old.”

She knew that from Lysono Marr. “I know that. Is there a point you are trying to get at?”

“I’m getting to it, Arrie of Volantis. Patience is a virtue.”

“And I don’t have it. On with it.”

He chuckled. “You kiss that mother with your mouth?”

“Sometimes,” she lied. It had been too long since she had seen Mother, or longer still since she gave her a kiss. “You were saying?”

“I was saying, there is little reason for a girl to reach for Astapor. You don’t have the looks of a captain, or a first mate. There may be a week of great games that is being prepared in the pits of Astapor, but that has little attraction to those from the Free Cities. Your hands are calloused, but your face is not salt scarred. So you know the ways of the mast and the rope, but not been on a deck long enough to lose that pretty face of yours.” Arya did not blush, hard as it was. _Only Father would call me pretty. He would say I was like Aunt Lyanna, who everyone said was beautiful._ “The more I talk, the more I realize you are not a sailor. Or, rather, not _just_ a sailor. Your father or mother was a captain, am I wrong?”

Arya smiled. “You’re not,” she lied. “How do you know so much about men of the sea and their daughters?”

“My brother,” he said. “He is a captain of a slave galley. Goes from island to island, targets savages and brings them into port to be sold.” Arya’s fingers tightened around rein. Stupid the Camel grunted in return. _Relax. You are Essosi. Arianne of Volantis thinks slavery is the most normal thing in the world. She does not know it is an abomination._ “Profitable business. Bloody business too, which is why I prefer to sell rugs and spices rather than people. When I was a boy, I saw an Unsullied kill a babe right in front of her mother.”

Arya felt her stomach twist. “The Unsullied…”

“You’ve heard of them.” He let out a groan as he stretched out his arm. “The best spears in the world. The three thousand of Qohor stood against the forty thousand Dothraki that would have torn the city apart. Killing a babe is one of the final trials for an Unsullied.” Arya saw how Khazan held the reins of his camel with an uneasy grip. “But after I saw that boy kill that babe, I knew my father’s business wouldn’t go to me. So here I am! Khazan the Merchant, seller of exotic rugs and father to four.”

She was desperate to change the conversation. “Boys or girls?”

“Three boys, one girl. Don’t let anyone this, but my wife cried hardest when my Taziea was born than for my boys. So did I.” Khazan smiled. He did that a lot, but there was a real warmth to that smile. “Girls tend to have a sharper wit than their brothers. I need someone capable to pass the business to.”

“What about your sons?”

The Meereenese gave out a laugh and a snort. He sounded like a pig when he did that. He sounded like a pig a lot. “Tazrac, Azrek and Yetzkek. Good boys, good lads, but they think so straight forward. One point to the next, no divergences, no chances, no risks. To be a good merchant, one must take risks. My Taziea, she knows this. She’ll do well.”

“How old is your Taziea?”

“Three,” he said with pride, “but she can outthink the rest of us three times over. Except my wife. For her, only two times over. My Hazea,” he sighed, “the biggest breasts this side of Valyria, and no one with a sharper tongue. Small brain though, not very smart. She agreed to marry me after all. Only a fool would do such a thing.”

“I don’t know,” Arya said. Stupid the Camel chugged out a large clog of saliva onto the sands. “Your marriage doesn’t sound too much of a burden.”

Khazan smiled. “You are a terrible liar, Arrie of Volantis. Never get caught by the enemy. You’ll tell them everything in moments.”

Whenever she wasn’t dragged into conversations, Arya found herself looking at the mountains. They were red in some parts, and a bright gold in others. Sometimes, the dust would blow across the rocks and Arya would see waves dance across their ragged surface. _It’s like a sea. Waters have waves, and so do these mountains._ The wind would howl, sharp and loud, and wolves would howl back in return, showing the wind how it was done. Arya thought they showed off pretty well.

“Usually don’t hear wolves be that loud,” murmured Takazar from New Ghis. He fastened the bolt of cloth that he had wrapped over his head and around his eyes. He had called it a turbine when Arya asked him about it. “Must be quite the lonesome wolf.”

“Or a fierce pack,” Narasio said. “They are stronger when they are together.”

That much the Tyroshi had the truth of it. _How many seas have I crossed to reach Jon?_ If Daenerys was a good woman, Arya supposed she would be a part of their pack as well. No matter what happened, Jon would never leave Arya’s sight again. _And their little one. No matter what else, he is innocent._ Aegon swore he would protect his aunt and her child, but what of Jon Connington? _How loyal is a griffin?_

When those thoughts slipped into her mind, Arya reminded herself of Syrio Forel. _Fear curs deeper than swords._ She was a wolf, and wolves could not be afraid. She had a fang of steel hanging from her side. If anyone meant to stop her, she would kill them.

She looked up into the mountains. _Try to steal from me, bandits. You won’t find a weak merchant._

Narasio rode up to her. Stupid did not seem to think too kindly to that. He gave out a snort and unleashed a giant wad of spit onto the ground. Narasio frowned at that. “Your camel does not seem to like me very much.”

The camel let out an absurd groan. “He doesn’t like anyone very much.” She frowned. “Stupid beast. What you want, Narasio?”

“To not be in the rear.” His hair was dyed blue, but Arya could hardly see it beneath all the sand that was kicked into it. “Tired of breathing dirt and sand. You head for Astapor, am I wrong?”

“You’re not,” Arya admitted.

“What do you plan on doing there?”

 _Saving Jon. Daenerys too if we can help it._ “Finding a way back home. It’s the closest city with a port.”

“But not the friendliest. I spent a month in Astapor. They all thought I couldn’t speak their gutter drawl of Valyrian. I was called a dog so many times, I started to check for a tail.”

“Did you find one?”

“Very funny,” Narasio said in a voice that suggested he was not amused. “You are much better off with Yunkai. Still a slaving city in Ghis, but their pillow houses attract men from all over the world. Surely you have been in their ports more than Astapor’s.”

“She will find ships aplenty,” offered Khazan from atop his wagon. “Travelers from all over are making their way to Astapor. Won’t be too long until their week of games.”

Hulhor let out a groan as a cloud of sand was kicked into his face. “They kill one khal,” he said as he wiped the sand out of his eyes, “and they throw games and parties.”

Arya turned in her saddle. “Khal Drogo is dead?”

“Of course he is! What could a dothraki horde do against Astapor? He couldn’t even breach the walls.”

Arya licked her lips. “I heard he was married.”

“Aye,” said Khazan as he rustled in his seat, “to the Targaryen girl. Daena.” He chewed on his lip. “Dayeena. No, no…it was…”

“Daenerys,” Arya said.

“Yes!” the merchant shouted. “Daenerys Targaryen,” he said with a thrust of his finger. “She’s dead, I think.”

Arya felt her heart lunge up in her throat. “Dead? You sure?”

“No,” answered Takazar. “None have seen skin or hair of her. Some said she was pregnant with the Khal’s child.”

 _Not with the Khal’s child. With Jon’s._ “I heard there was another Westerosi.”

“No surprise there,” said Talmen. “Plenty of sellswords were attached to the Golden Horde. Good coin is hard to come by!”

Khazan turned his head towards the twins. “Then why didn’t you sign up with the Dothraki?” There was more than an edge in his voice. _He is of Meereen, but the Astapori must be kin. If Astapor fall, the other cities would follow. His three boys and girl would be at risk._ But they were slavers all the same, and that was wrong.

“It wasn’t that good,” Talmen answered. There was a somberness in his voice that seemed unfamiliar coming from him. “Dothraki are Dothraki, don’t matter if they are dressed in silk. I didn’t want to see babes thrown on spikes.”

“Would they do that?” Arya asked. “Those are not just stories, are they?” _Did they discover just whose child Daenerys Targaryen was holding in their womb?_

“No, Arrie, those are not stories.” The smile had faded from Narasio’s face. “There’s a reason the Free Cities pay off the Khals. There’s a reason the Pentoshi gave that Targaryen girl to Drogo.”

“Is that all she was? Some kind of offering?”

“Probably,” grumbled Khazan. “Poor girl. Would have thought nothing of it before…but, ah, well having a daughter changes your view on things. What kind of brother would sell his sister off to the Dothraki? Not one of my boys, I promise you.”

A heavy silence fell on them. Stupid counted to grunt, and the wheels of Khazan’s wagons cut through the sands, but otherwise Arya could only hear the wind.  _Jon is not dead. You’re not_. She could not have crossed the seas just to find that Jon had died. _Not unburied, not rotting in the ground. The grass hasn’t drunk in your blood, it hasn’t, I know it._

 _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ She kept the lesson in her heart as they travelled the road.

 

**MOTHER OF DRAGONS**

 

She could hear the distant flaps of Agerion as he took to the morning sky. Her black had rested well through the night, entwined with Rhaexes and Visgar in a knot of wing, tail and scale, but Agerion had a dragon’s hunger and would not wait for his brothers. He pushed Visgar off from him and wormed his way through Rhaexes lax grip, and with a few strong strikes he flew out from the jaw of the cave.

Dany watched it all from the back, from atop her bedroll. Daemon was resting at peace on top of her chest. His snores were a gentle music that had helped her lull to sleep as of late. Ever since Dany had returned from Ghis, the illusions had taken dominion of her. _The three heads. Mummer’s dragon. Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar. Brandon Snow._ She would take whatever peace she could find, and for the moment, that was her son as he sleeps in peace and bliss.

Jhiqui and Irri have already left; their bedrolls have been neatly tucked away. Dany had considered to continue lying on her back, her fingers softly combing through Daemon’s hair. His soft dark hair was beginning to take on a fiercer and darker shade, just like his father. She wanted to look at him watch him forever, and softly whisper sweet nothings into his ear. She wanted Jon to be with them, for their family to be united again.

She was queen and khaleesi; she could not wait. Dany wrapped Daemon in cloth and rose to her feet, making sure to keep her son close to her chest. His head rested peacefully on her shoulder as Dany left the maw of the cave. When Dany first woke up, the sky was a bleeding wound, but now the blue had washed away the red.

Tareoh Neh Kheluk rode lazily past. He wore his riding trousers but chose to go without a shirt. His chest was sun licked, and Dany could see the faint tracing of a scar wrap like a crescent down his side. “Khaleesi,” he said with a yawn, “did you rest well.”

“I did. Well enough. Once Daemon decided to cooperate, sleep came easily for the both of us.”

“It won’t be long before you miss these days. We sons are terrible creatures – profess to love you with one hand, and disobey your every order with the other. Daughters are worse, though. You love them with all your heart, and all they want you to do is stop scaring all the boys away.”

She could feel Daemon’s small feet dangle against her arm. Dany would love to have a daughter, one day. A little girl with Jon’s dark hair, who would be considered the delight of all the realm. But she could not dwell on that dream while Jon was chained in Astapor. “Any sign of Ser Jorah?”

The Ram shook his head. “Not yet. It has been two days, Khaleesi. We may need to fear the worst.”

“No,” she said. “We must give Jorah time.”

“It was a risk, Khaleesi, and you had the rights of it to send the Andal instead of yourself. But the Masters may not be so quick to negotiate. Just ask all the enslaved children of Lhazar that begged not to be taken from their homes.”

She hardened herself. “I am not a beggar. I am the Khaleesi of the Grass Sea, and I came to offer terms. My brother begged all his life, and I have drunk more than my fill of that.” Then she felt something soft and sleek slither between her legs. She let out a gasp and looked down. Visgar was between her legs, his wings brushing against her, and his sleek tail was wrapped around her foot. He looked up at her, pleading. “No, sweetness,” Dany said as she shook her foot loose. “You are much too big for that. And besides, I cannot hold both you and Daemon.”

Tareoh could not keep himself from laughing. “Dragons or babes, children are always needy, Khaleesi.”

Dany let out a groan. Visgar was clawing softly at her leg, and Daemon was beginning to wake. _Gods help me._ “What I need are answers. What I need is…” She shook her head. Daemon was already clawing at her. She bared her breast and allowed Daemon to suck. “I don’t know what I need, Tareoh.”

“You need to ride. Your dragons need to hunt. Go find your Silver, and take yourself through the pass. Being away from people will do you some good, Khaleesi.”

She nodded. “You have the right of it, I think. Have you seen my bloodriders? One of them would want to come with me, I’m sure.”

“Rakharo and Aggo, I would not where they went. But I have an inkling of where Jhogo had ridden off to.”

So did Daenerys. “Give Jhogo an hour with Irri, then they both need to attend to me. Fetch Jhiqui for me, will you?” She turned towards the cave. “Come Visgar,” she ordered in a soft voice. The silver dragon flew behind her back into the cave.

Daemon was well fed by the time Jhiqui arrived with the water. There was a stream that had cut through the mountains, and they had been using that to bathe in. Dany refused to use the copper tub that had been one of her many wedding gifts. Not only was it too heavy and cumbersome, so Dany refused to have her followers break themselves rolling it up the mountains, but wood was hard to come by, and Dany would not waste such a valuable material. After Dany had stripped out of her dress, Jhiqui washed her in the cool water.

“Your hair grows, Khaleesi.” Jhiqui always knew how to break the awkward silence as she did her work. “Jon Snow will be pleased.”

Dany thought on that. The fires that birthed her dragons and her son had taken all the hair off from her. The brow, her long strands of silver and gold, and even the small bush that was between her legs. All purged in the flames that made her the Mother of Dragons. But it had been a little more than a month, and her hair was returning. It was just a little bit past her ear now, but it wouldn’t be long before it touched her shoulder. “He will. If we rescue him too soon, he may not recognize me.”

“Nonsense, Khaleesi.” Jhiqui rubbed the water into her back. Dany shivered as the dirt flowed down in muddy streams onto the cavern floor. “The Andal will know you. A khal always knows his khaleesi.”

“Khal? He is not—”

She felt Jhiqui place her hand over her belly. “He is. He put your khalakka inside of you. The kahalsar fights to rescue him. Jon Snow is khal.”

Dany wanted to hope for that. It would be so much easier if Jon was accepted. “And no one questions that Jon and I…that we horned Drogo?”

Jhiqui was quiet for a moment. “Who would question the Mother of Dragons, Khaleesi? Jon’s son survived the flames, just as you had. What was known…it is no longer true. Nothing is known anymore, now that the dragons have returned, and we follow a khaleesi.” She gave a faint smile. “You are all washed in the back, Khaleesi. Shall I wash the front?”

“No, I will do that myself. Leave the bucket and cloth. Thank you, Jhiqui. Find Irri if you can. Rip her from Jhogo if you must.”

Her handmaid giggled as she rose to her fleet. “She and Jhogo are _always_ rutting.” A hot blush rushed to her cheek. “Won’t be long before Jhogo has a son growing in her.”

Dany found herself smiling. “They are at it like dogs, aren’t they? I’ve run into them more than once.”

Jhiqui’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. “You have, Khaleesi?”

“Oh, yes. I didn’t tell them, of course. They would die of shock and shame, then I would be short both a bloodrider and a handmaid, and what would I do then? But I don’t mind it. My son needs friends and those he can trust. Who can he trust more than the son of the blood-of-my-blood?”

“None.” There was no hesitation in Jhiqui’s voice. “When Irri gives Jhogo a son, the khalakka shall be blessed. He will have someone who will never break faith.”

Dany dipped the cloth into the bucket, and squeezed. She felt the water drip through her fingers as she scrubbed. “You seem very confident in that.”

“It was known that a khal would wed his son to the daughters of his bloodriders, and the sons of his blood would be the most fiercest of the khalakka’s champions.” She smiled. “And would you not wish to see your son have a friend, Khaleesi?”

“I would,” Dany said. She could almost imagine it. A boy with dark hair wrestling with another, whose skin was like copper, laughing and hooting as they made a mess in the garden of the Red Keep. The sun would be bright, and she would be resting her head lazily on Jon’s lap. It would be spring, and everything would be right. “Go now, Jhiqui. I need to ride today.”

Once she broke fast over some charred strips of lamb, she rode for the pass. Khal Drogo had given her few gifts in life, but Silver was one of them. She knew the white mare as well as she knew herself, and the mare answered her before Dany could even give her a direction. _One mind in two_. She wondered if that was what Jon’s connection to Ghost was like.

Agerion was far ahead of them, as always. Her black waited for neither beast nor man, and was the most fierce of all her dragons. He was kind to Daenerys, and to all others was quick to snap and snarl. Even his brothers were quick to draw his fury. Dany and her handmaidens had to pull them away from each other on more than one occasion. But Agerion was the leader, and when he snarled at his brothers, they would listen. He made sure they all had a fair share of the hunts – although he would always get to eat first.

Rhaexes hovered close to them, flying from rock to rock that littered the path. The light danced through his wings, and made his scaled glow like gold. Rhaexes always seemed so solemn in Dany’s mind. He would strap himself to the tallest rock and bathe under the sun. It all seemed quite broody in Dany’s mind. While Agerion and Visgar would rest, Dany would sometimes see Rhaexes soar off in the distance, seeing the sky and the world on his own terms, without Agerion to make demands out of him.

But he was the most protective of Daemon. When Ghost was out hunting, Rhaexes would curl his tail and wings around her son, his golden eyes focused on any and all that entered the cave. Not even the handmaidens would be safe from his snarls should they come too close. Only Dany would be granted permission to take Daemon away from Rhaexes’ clutches, and even that was with great hesitation.

But Visgar could outrace them all, if he had a mind to it. He was the slimmest of her dragons, the most affectionate, and the most spirited. He always looked to Dany, eager to please. When he was just a hatchling, Visgar and Daemon would be curled up on her chest. She thought then that Daemon was destined to ride Visgar, but in recent weeks those hopes were dashed. He paid her son barely any mid, and Dany began to suspect it had less to do with being close to Daemon, and more he wanted to be close to _her_.

_They are all my children. All were born from the fire, and they all need me._

Daemon rested in a satchel that hung from her chest, giggling with glee as he swung. Tareoh was right. She needed to be away from the khalasar, if only for just a moment. She could begin to find herself out here, get some peace and calm. She rubbed Daemon’s nose, and he scrunched in response. A soft giggle escaped her.

Dany turned the head of Silver, and saw No-Eyes trailing behind them. He moved at a pace far too leisurely for someone that could not see. For the first few days, she had instructed Jhiqui to guide him along the mountain. It was not Vaes Sash, and she would not see him fall to his death off the mountain side just because of a misplaced step. But it was not long before the Knowing Priest traversed the mountain paths as if he had walked them his whole life.

“Are you enjoying yourself, No-Eyes? I would think you would prefer to soak your feet in the sun?” On more than one occasion, Dany has crossed path with No-Eyes, often him under a long cast shadow, with only his feet outstretched beneath the hot sun.

He answered with a hum. “Nonsense. Stick to what you know, and you know so little. Besides, I can never know when you need my council.”

“And what makes you think I need your counsel?”

He looked towards Jhogo, although how he knew where her bloodrider was Dany could not guess. “Just as you need may need his arakh, you may need my words.”

Dany rode on. Jhogo insisted that they should not ride too far from camp, but Dany had a dragon’s defiance in her. “Don’t tell me you cannot defend me, blood-of-my-blood.” She had said it sweetly, but Jhogo could only frown and mutter beneath his breath. She understood his concern, but Dany needed more than to just ride. She wanted to see as much of the world as she could. For a month she had remained close to the same side of the mountain.

They traversed over a bridge, built from stone. It was covered in a thick layer of dust and dirt. “Who do you think built this, you wonder?”

“Old Ghis,” No-Eyes said. He turned to face the ancient ruins of that empire. His hair was strands of black and gray, and the wind pulled at it. “Before the dragons, there were the harpies. You saw it with your own eyes, Khaleesi.”

There was no doubt in the priest’s voice. “I did.” And she saw the wind peel away at the layer of debris, revealing a harpy’s talon stretched across the stone. “What was this place, thousands of years ago?”

“Something for the harpies,” Jhogo spat. Once the Dothraki and the Ghiscari were friends and allies, but then Khal Drogo made his march on Astapor. _How quickly enemies are made._ “What’s it matter, Khaleesi? They are dead, while we live. My father taught me that to live a full life, one must not fear or question.”

“And just where is your father now, Jhogo?” No-Eyes asked.

The blood-of-her-blood hesitated. “Died when Khal Drogo defeated Khal Khorldo. I saw him charge at the Khal of Khals.”

“Then perhaps,” the priest said, “it would be wise for the Khaleesi to ask questions and learn from the dead. Do you know your Valyrian, Khaleesi?”

She was almost insulted. “Of course I do. It is my mother language.”

“ _Valar morghulis._ ” She had heard the phrase a dozen times in her life. _All men must die._ Dany would pray not for a very long time. “It is good to think on the dead, Khaleesi. In time all will be ash and dust. Even your son. But what matter is not death, but _life_ , and what we make of it.”

Jhogo frowned. “I feel a speech coming.” But Irri silenced him with a glare.

Rhaexes swooped down onto the edge of the stone bridge. His claws perched on the rock like he was some bird. “I am Lhazareen, so we all know what that means. My father was some Dothraki that spread his seed on the hills of Lhazar, and it grew in my mother’s womb. Thanks to the Khal of Khals, he is probably dead. Scattered and crushed bones on some field somewhere. But I am alive, right here, with you and your dragons. The greatest miracle the world will ever see, and I am _blind_ to it. If there ever was a reason to end one’s life, that should be it. Why not walk over this bridge right now? Your dragons are the wonder of the world, and I will never set eyes on them. I can hear the flap of their wings, feel the hot heat from their breaths, but I shall set eyes on them.”

“But you will not cross the edge.” Dany observed just as much as she commanded. “You will live.”

No-Eyes crossed the arms behind his back. “No, I won’t. Think on all the rivers that I have crossed, Khaleesi. My father is dead, and will never know that dragons have claimed the skies again. But _I_ do. Patience has its virtues, Khaleesi.”

“My captains say that Jorah Mormont is lost to us.”

“And what does the Mother of Dragons believe?”

Jorah Mormont was the first of her Queensguard. He begged to do what he could to earn her favor and trust. _He desires me. He would damn Jon to misery and death within Astapor._ He would give his life for hers. “Jorah Mormont will return.”

No-Eyes only smiled and bowed his head in respect.

She decided to return after that. She had seen enough of the red mountains that surrounded Astapor. _A queen cannot be away from her people for long._ She thought on how her father would treat with his subjects, looming over them on the Iron Throne. The madness that consumed her father was a lie spread by the Usurper, but looking down on his subjects from the heights of a throne was a mistake. _We kings and queens are not gods. We’re flesh and blood, and I cannot forget that._ She would walk among the people when she returned, would let them sing sons to her on the streets and eat from their carts, hear the butchers on what the best cut of meat was. And when she would distill the dragon’s justice, she would do so atop the gaping maws of the Iron Throne.

When Silver trotted past the slopes of the mountain, she had expected to see her khalasar as it was. And in many respects, Dany was not surprised. But then she saw one of Tareoh Neh Kheluk’s Rams ride up to him. “Khaleesi, your knight has returned.”

Relief washed over her. “What does he say? How is he?”

“He awaits in your cave, Khaleesi. He will speak to none but you. For what it is worth, he looks well.”

“Then bring me to him.”

When she dismounted from Silver, she lifted Daemon from the satchel and held him close. Ser Jorah was resting against the cavern wall, his arms laid across his knee. “Your Grace,” he honored as he rose to his feet.

“Ser Jorah.” She could hear Rhaexes taking flight behind her. “Tell me everything.”

The Queensguard took in a long breath. “The Good Masters will send envoys. They will meet us at the Blood Gate.”

 

**THE WOLF IN THE PITS**

 

From beneath the pit, Jon could hear the echoes of the crowd. He could not make out the words against the rattling of the platform, but he knew what they were saying none the less.

The sons and daughters of Astapor wanted blood.

Jon tightened the leather buckle that kept the shoulder pad strapped to him. One more precaution, one more assurance that nothing would go wrong. He could almost hear the screams of horses on the fields of Qohor, the screaming of steel as they clashed in the distance. His gloved fingers tightened into a grip around the hilt of his sword. Any moment now and the gates would swing open, and Jon would need to kill.

“Forget all concepts of honor, Andal,” the Alashant had advised before Jon climbed into the cage. “This is the blood pits. Kill or be eaten.”

“What happened to finding glory in the arena?”

“There is glory. In victory and triumph. None to be found in being a corpse. Your opponent would have no mercy. Make sure to return the kindness.” He took a step back as the iron bars had swung shut, and the reins of the horses were snapped, and the iron cage was rolled away. “You are far too capable to die, Andal!” he called out. “Don’t you dare die just to spite me!”

 _No, not today. I won’t die for a long time._ When Jon closed his eyes, he could almost see her. Jon wondered if King Robert still remembered Aunt Lyanna, whom it was said that he loved. Jon would not forget Daenerys until he died. Her silver strands of hair, the boldness in her purple eyes, the way she smiled. Even then, in the tunnels that smelled of saw dust, Jon could see her.

“…AND FROM ACROSS THE SUNSET SEA, COMES THE BLACK HOUND!”

Iron chains lifted the wooden gate. The Astapori summer rolled off his face, and Jon had to squint to keep the light from his eyes. The winds rolled the sand across the arena floor. The moment Jon stepped out he could feel the heat rise through his boots. In the distance Jon could see a man, hardly armored save for an iron helm with a single slit. _How could he stand the heat?_ In his hands were a shortsword and a well-used buckler. _He’ll be fast and quick, but one good cut will bring him down._

Yieklaz’s Pit was not an impressive display. It was just a wide wooden circle, formed from large poles dug into the ground to keep the fight from spilling into the crowd. The onlookers sat on wooden benches, raised higher and higher over him. Jon could see some men with trays strapped to their bellies, filled with strands of meat. They were shouting something, and sometimes a man in the crowd would shout back in turn, and there would be an exchange of coin for food.

On the opposite side was a young boy with a wooden pendant hanging from his neck. A wooden mallet was in his hand, and he was staring intently at the announcer. Then his eyes went wide and he raised the mallet overhead.

And he swung into the gong.

The man charged.

Jon dug his boots into the sand, and tightened the grip around his sword. _He is faster, but I have the longer reach. He falters once and it is over._ The Bloodsworne was coming for him buckler first. _Keep the brace, and I have won. Make him fall to the ground, and he is dead._

Jon didn’t expect the man to be half a bull. When he rammed right into Jon, he nearly toppled over. He staggered back, his feet desperate to regain their balance. The man grunted as she swung at Jon, but the longsword had the better reach. The steel blades clashed against the other. With a shout he made for another lunge, but there was no thought behind it. Jon easily swerved away from him.

The fighter was half way through a step when Jon struck. The buckler would have blocked a swing to the chest, so Jon aimed for the head. _Maybe the helmet would be in worse shape than it looks. Maybe it will crack. Maybe I will rip right through it and tear into his head._

He was wrong. The sword clanged against the helmet, and Jon could feel his bones rattle from the impact. Whatever he felt, his opponent had it worse. He yelled out and fell back. He barely raised his shield to block another strike.

Jon kept pressing. The Bloodsworne would dodge or block each attack, but it was Jon that was pushing him back. Behind the slits of his helm, his brown eyes were wide. Jon could hear the crowd cheer and boo in frustration. They wanted something more bloody, more close, more exciting than what Jon was willing to give them.

He didn’t care to be their entertainment. He just wanted to live.

Jon brought the sword down, and he heard the edge rip through soft flesh. The man gurgled blood, thick and crimson, and his hands reached for his throat. But before he could, he fell down into the ground. There were a few cheers from the crowd, but only a few. The rest just leaned back in their seats, an unsatisfied look on their faces.

“You could have given them more of a show,” Iorwen later said in the tunnels beneath the pit.  “It would be better for you.”

“How? Every moment is one where I end up with a blade in my gut.”

“It’s better if they know you,” Iorwen said as he leaned in close. “They know you, Jon, the Andal, the Black Hound, whatever, then that gets the attention of the Masters. They will want you in their games and shows. That means more honors in your purse.”

“You know too much about these things, Iorwen. How have you not managed to buy your freedom yet?”

The man shrugged. “Too many whores and ale, I suppose.” Jon frowned at that. “Have you ever been between the thighs of a pleasure slave from Lys? Experience such a thing, and _then_ chastise me.”

The crowd roared from above, and Jon could make out the name “HOREAH! HOREAH!” Their feet slammed into the ground with such force that the wooden ceilings of the tunnel shook. Dust streamed in from above.  The gate was lifted open, and Jon saw the Qohorik step through. His spear was well and truly bloodied. “Where’s your net?”

The man smiled. “The fool had cut half his way through before I gutted him. He whined like a pig.”

“Try to make sure he doesn’t cut through it at all,” said Horeah from behind. He was resting against the wall as he polished his axe. He was the first to enter the pit, and the first to return. The blade of his axe was bloody and gored, and it had taken the entire day for it to be cleaned. The man took pride in his work. “Would be a shame for the Andal to waste his efforts on you.”

Saethor scowled at that. “Watch your words, Norvosi.”

“Watch your nets.” Horeah did not lift his eyes from his axe as he polished away.

Jon could see the anger in Saethor’s eyes. Jon took a step in front of the man. “Enough. If you want to trade blows, I’m sure we can arrange a Bloodsworne from another house to taste your steel.”

“Fat chance of that,” Iorwen said. “No Master wants to send one of their own against those of Hrasher.”

“Why’s that?” Saethor asked.

“Because,” Iorwen smiled, “to face any Bloodsworne of Hrasher is death. Those lot we killed were surely the lowest of the low. Pigs to the slaughter, to cut back on their losses.”

That put a coil in Jon’s stomach, but the screams that followed were worse. “What was that?” he said with some dread. He slowly made his way to the gate, with Saethor close behind. They peeked through the gaps in the wood and saw crucifixes being dragged on the sand. Burly men were digging holes, and Jon watched as the crucifixes were lowered into the pits. And all the while, Jon could hear the men and women screaming. Three executions were on display, and the crowd cheered at their expense.

“They were runaways,” answered Alezek vo Hrasher in his approach. He was dressed in fine silk and a soft robe. Jon was surprised at how little dirt was attracted to him. “And the crowd gets to bet on who will be the first to die. They’ve been nailed to those crosses. If that or the heat won’t kill them, a spear to the gut surely will.”

Jon could feel something acid rise in his throat. He turned away from the gate, but the screams followed. “Why aren’t you enjoying this?”

“Are you disgusted by this, Andal?” Alezek’s smile was like two thin worms. “Do you not execute criminals in your lands?”

“Not like this.” There was an iron tone in his voice. “Suffering and justice are not the same thing.”

“On that count you are right. But justice has nothing to do with this.” The wails nearly drowned out Alezek’s voice. “We’re setting an example. Until freedom is earned, or bought, you have no rights. You belong to the Masters. Any that forget that – pillow slaves, house servants, or even Bloodsworne – will suffer a similar fate.”

“Fear. That is how you rule.”

“Just so. Fear brings peace. Know your place, and you live. Forget it and…well.” He shrugged as another screamed in agony. Jon could hear the crowd throw out insults as they jeered at the execution. “You get what you deserve. Still…I can’t say I envy them. Crucifixion is a cruel way to die. But peace has a high price, I suppose.”

_This is not the price of peace. It is the price of servitude._

They were loaded in the iron cages not long after, their hands and feet bound in chains and fetters. It was a morbid twinge of curiosity that forced Jon to look back at Yieklaz’s Pit. One part of him wanted him to hope that those on the crosses had died quickly, that their misery had been swept behind them. But another part wished that they had lingered on their crosses. Not to extend their suffering, but to prolong their defiance.

Jon could not say which he would do. To be reunited with Dany all the quicker, or to spit in the face of the Masters.

The Alashant was waiting for him, as was the rest of the Bloodsworne, when they returned. Once the guards unlocked his chains, the Alashant laid a hand on Jon’s shoulders. “You return to us alive. And victorious.”

“I could have lost. I could have surrendered.”

The Alashant soured at that. “Don’t jest, Andal. You have no talent for it. The heat is strong today. I can only imagine what it was like inside the pit. You and the others should freshen up with drink. Rest in the shade.”

“Until we are called?” Jon asked as he walked past.

“Always, Andal. We are sworn to serve, after all.”

As warm as the water was, Jon relished washing away the soreness in his throat. He did not put away the cup until it was drained, and he felt the water trickle down his whiskers. He furiously rubbed away at his lips with the back of his hand. Saethor and the others were leaning in the shade, their eyes watching with a lazy stare as the Bloodsworne trained. It was hard enough to fight in that sun, but it was over quick. The Alashant was relentless in his training, relentless in turning the men into warriors. He would not let up.

“Andal.” Jon turned and saw Arekor emerge from a doorway. Jon could see that the man’s one good eye was red and inflamed. The dust of the city was without mercy. “You live. You return.”

“I expected you of all people to have faith in me, Arekor.”

“It’s not faith,” he said. “It’s relief. I would not want to see you perished.”

Jon laid his head against the wall. He closed his eyes, hoping the darkness would sap away at the irritable sweat that streamed down his hair. He was disappointed. “Because you care so much for my well being, Arrekor.”

“Because we have unfinished business.” He could almost smell the man’s foul breath as he leaned in close. “I have word,” came the whisper.

Jon whipped his head. “Of what?”

Arekor’s eye looked to the others. “Later,” he spoke in a soft tone. “Tonight.”

The night did come, and once they bathed themselves in the pools beneath the manse, many of the Bloodsworne trickled to their beds. Despite the exhaustion that sapped away at him, Jon stayed awake. There was a piece of debris in the corner of his chambers, and Jon would press his fingers into a fist around it. The sharp corners could scratch against him. The paint kept him awake until Arekor emerged.

“You said wait until the night. Well, it’s night.”

“That it is.” To the man’s credit, he managed to open the grated door with care and discretion. Two of his fingers were fused together, and yet the man was as quiet as a cat. “I have words for you.”

“Then speak them,” Jon said in a soft hiss, “and make them known.”

“The Master has been talking with his son. More like arguments than anything else. But I could make out some fragments.” Arekor stopped for a time, his disfigured teeth chewing at his broad lips. “Someone is coming to Astapor.”

 _This is what he found?_ “Someone always comes to Astapor. Slavers, no doubt.”

 “Except I heard the word from Alezek. Something about treachery. I heard talks of Khal Drogo.”

“Khal Drogo is dead. I saw his corpse burn at his funeral pyre.”

“Then it is another,” Arrekor decided. “A new khal must have risen.” _More like several. The Golden Horde tore away at itself in his death._ No armies would cross the Narrow Sea. Jon could almost see the fire of the tent.

“I can’t make use of this,” Jon said. “What am I supposed to do about some khal?”

“The terms were words from inside the manse, beyond the training yard. I am following the bargain.”

“You are not wrong.” Jon chewed at his lip. “So a khal is coming to Astapor. Why would the Master and his son get in an argument over that? And why talks of treason?”

“Drogo tried to conquer Astapor. Have you forgotten?”

“No,” Jon said. “He is selling something. Or buying something. Has to be. Slaves, in either case.” Arekor didn’t offer a response. “But what kind of khal would prompt talks of treason?”

 

**A MAN WITH DOUBTS**

 

They would leave the mountains soon enough. Before the day was done, the khalasar would stand before the gates of Astapor, and the Khaleesi would address the masters. He did not need eyes to know the khalasar was wrapped in fear. Khaleesi had returned dragons to the world, and walked through fire. She lives when she should be ash and dust on the winds. She has done the impossible…but it was all very possible for the masters to decide that she is better off dead.

Can the Khaleesi survive a spear to the heart? No-Eyes was not sure.

As the khalasar broke camp, No-Eyes wandered. The dragons and the wolf knew what was about to happen. Or, at least, they suspected something was about to change. He could not smell or hear them as he walked along the paths. _They must be close to the Khaleesi._ It did not matter where she went, a dragon or a wolf was never far from her side.

The Khaleesi would need the beasts with her. If the worst was to come…if the Masters would send the spears of the Unsullied on them…she would need flame and claw to escape. And that may not even be enough. _We are risking everything today._

There was more of Khal Drogo in the Khaleesi than she would want to admit. How many times had the Khal of Vaes Sath performed a daring raid, rode on the front lines when all of his blood riders protested, put himself at the same risk as those that rode under his banner? Daenerys Targaryen was no warrior. Only a ceremonial arakh hung from her belt. But she placed her life at no less a risk than all those that rose up in her name.

No-Eyes walked along the cliffs. There was something soothing about the way the winds pulled at him. The moment he lost faith, the instant that concertation and discipline left him, and he would be dead. Swept off the cliffs to pummel into the rocks below. Moments like that forced him to remember what he was – the last one to walk the Knowing Path – and to recall every lesson and token of philosophy. “I know the Path, and the Path knows me.” The mantra was always on his lips.

When the wind tugged at his hair, No-Eyes remembered the temple. Most of Lhazar was built from stone. They had learned their lessons after the Age of Blood – it was harder for the Dothraki to set stone aflame than hay and timber. But the temple was different. The stone huts were wide and practical, but the temple reached high above the rolling hills.

In those rare moments when No-Eyes allowed himself to remember, the halls of the temple would appear before him. In the darkness, the stones were built, and from everywhere at once No-Eyes could hear the thundering bellows of the wind beating against the gray walls of the temple. And bit by bit, breath by breath, No-Eyes could see them. Those who had been instructed in the Path at his side, and those who mastered over them. He could hear their voices, but they were as faded as echoes. Their faces were shadows and mist, their eyes soft gray pools, their hair silvery trails that faded into the abyss.

 _I have forgotten my past. The faceless ones surround me._ At times he tried to remember his mother, and he couldn’t. _What sort of man forgets the face of the woman that brought him into the world?_ Some culture out there, amongst the thousands of scrolls reserved in their archives, surely had an answer. But No-Eyes knew not where they could be found. 

He felt a shiver. Cold fingers slithered up his spine, reaching, crawling at his neck. _What do you know of a mother’s love_? No-Eyes saw his face appear in the mist, and it was more real to him than all of the dragons in the world. The daring smile, his dark eyes that glimmered in the sunlight, the harsh beard that clung to his chin. His voice was a deep rasp that echoed in the mind. _Your memories are as strong as the sand you stand upon._

“Ghost,” he said in a breaking voice. “Leave me.”

 _Leave you?_ Something like a laugh poured through his mind, and in the shadows No-Eyes could see his smile glisten. _I and you are intertwined. One soul, one form. I marked you. I made you. My No-Eyes, my priest, the man who took my seed gladly and willing. Who long did you pad behind my steps, hound?_

All feeling fled from his form. The form that was honed to mastery on the Path failed him. “No choice was given. You gave me no choice, Bharbo.”

_Bharbo. Bharbo. Bharbo. You didn’t speak such names to me at the beginning._

“Iargo.”

 _Yes, Iargo._ The name slithered into his mind, cold and piercing. _A false name, just as false as the one I gave unto you. But I forsook that name, while you embraced yours. I made you priest._

“You made me to serve. You twisted my words to serve you.”

_And again, and again, and again you fulfilled your oath, as twisted and corrupted as they were. “My children, and my children’s children.” Were those words beating inside of your skull as you held Drogo in your arms. Did you see freedom with his death? I carved into your eyes, but I surely must have dug all the way into your heart._

“I name you a ghost. Leave me.”

_And I name you traitor. There is a disease in your soul, and it shall devour you before the end. It will devour your Khaleesi._

“No I won’t. You are not _known_ to me. I know the Path, and you are not on it. _Leave_ me.”

_Leave you? I shall never leave you, No-Eyes of the Temple. Your words are still bound, and you have yet to strength to break them._

Bharbo did not speak to him in the darkness. No-Eyes heard the wind, as harsh a chorus as there ever was, rippling in the air. His hair was tugged towards the edge, pointing towards oblivion. From the darkness, he heard the chimes of Quaithe’s jewelry, ringing as loud as bells. But her feet were silent, and her breaths went unheard. _She is more a ghost than Bharbo._

No-Eyes never could know when the Shadowbinder near. Never, until she spoke. “Take care, Blind One. One false step, and you will fall.” Her voice was like broken glass, smooth and sharp in equal measure. “Do you relish in this danger?”

“I find safety in what I was taught. What has guided me. But you know these things, Shadowbinder. We’ve had conversations before, and each was as pleasant as the last.”

“That was before, when you were the dog that lapsed at the Khal’s bowl.”

No-Eyes grunted at that. “What am I now, the dog that licks at the Khaleesi’s feet?”

“Yes,” she said plainly. “But at least now, you serve someone with worth.”

“What do you want, Quaithe?”

“To disturb your peace. To talk. To be familiar with one another.”

“To be familiar,” he breathed. “I don’t know you, Quaithe.” He turned to face her then. She could not hide her voice from him. “But I do know what you are. A shadowbinder, a trickster, someone who deals the dark and forbidden things. You gained Drogo’s ears and lost it just as quickly. You slithered in and out of the Khaleesi’s tent. You _changed_ them.”

“Who did I change?”

“Don’t mock me, Asshai’i. There was a day when Jon Snow was near Daenerys, and he was calm. He knew himself. And a day when he lost all feeling of who he was.”

“Love can do that. It is a madness, but one that people accept.”

“No,” he had said, “not love. That wasn’t it. I knew the Andal, before he knew himself. It was duty that drove him on for weeks on weeks. His obligation to protect the Khaleesi…from her brother, her husband. Perhaps even herself. But lust?” He shook his head at that.

“So you knew,” Quaithe said with a knowing air. “And yet you said nothing. You more than suspect of whose son grew within the womb of Daenerys Targaryen – and still you said nothing. For all your talks of knowing oneself, how can anyone say they can trust you?”

“Don’t you talk of my honor, Quaithe. All know that I am not the one that speaks behind a mask.”

“No, you speak behind lies. Most of all to yourself. For years, you served the man that feasted upon your heart. Then again, perhaps you hoped beyond hope that Khal Bharbo would become your Iargo again.”

No-Eyes became very still. “You know nothing.”

“Your voice betrays you. I know enough. Is that why you lingered for so long after the death of Khal Bharbo? You knew he did not simply die. How long did you know of the Ghiscari’s treachery?” No-Eyes was quiet. “Long before you discovered the poison, I imagine. And I know there was no battle outside Astapor. How did Drogo die? Well, poison works just as well.”

“What do you want?”

“To know you,” spoke Quaithe. “To know he that was betrayed and betrayer in equal measure. Why does the priest follow the Mother of Dragons?”

 

**THE WOLF IN THE PITS**

 

“Explain to me how we got into this.” Saethor scrubbed at the blade with an oiled rag. The purple sheen glimmered under the harsh light. “Because when I woke up today, shining away at all the swords in the armory was not something I had in mind.”

Horeah looked at the blade laid across his lap with fierce determination. Nothing could deter him. “With your mouth.” Tear dripped down from his black eye, but that didn’t deter Horeah of Norvos. He polished the blade with precision and care. Jon could not recall a time when Horeah was anything less than serious. “You are too easy, Qohorik.”

“Shut it, Norvosi.” Saethor gave off a grunt as his hands slipped, sending the sword twirling to the ground. “My fucking luck.”

“Your luck has been fucked.” Iorwen breathed over the blade, and looked amused with himself. He had already finished a dagger, and the short sword would be added to his collection. “You were born a slave. Can’t imagine someone with worse luck than that.”

Saethor scowled at that, but he made no comments. His bruised jaw seemed to stretch as he frowned. Saethor was too quick to anger, saw a friend for an enemy, and was all too willing to bellow out a threat. It was a wonder he let Jon help him as much as he did. Jon couldn’t imagine someone like Saethor being born into slavery – he had too much pride for that. Too stubborn and willful by far.

Wherever Saethor’s pride came from, it was the reason the four of them were set to shining the blades. Saethor got angry at something that Horeah said – which always seemed to happen as of late – and a punch was thrown. Jon and Iorwen tried to put a stop to it before the Alashant saw – but by the time that happened, Jon had been punched, and Iorwen threw one back in return, and the four of them were at it in a stupid struggle.

 _You and your temper are going to get you killed, Saethor._ Jon kept such thoughts to himself and just focused on the task at hand. The Alashant was very clear – each of them had to wipe the grime and dust away from ten blades. “I want them to shine as the River Worm does below the morning sun.”

Jon had the easiest time of it. Ser Rodrik had made it a point to teach the sons of Lord Stark the fine art of looking after your blades. Jon was lacking for whetstones, but he could at least polish the blade. He was working on his fourth while Saethor was struggling on his first. The Qohorik was getting there at least.

“How do you do it, Andal?” Saethor was all a scowl. “There you are, humming away, without a care in the world, while the rest of us are making our fingers crooked.”

Iorwen chuckled. “My fingers aren’t crooked.”

“Oh hush, Branded One,” Saethor scowled. “With how many you have killed, I’m sure you know how to make these weapons sing.”

Iorwen smiled. “I cannot dispute that. Though it’s more accurate to say that the man I kill that do the singing.”

Horeah grumbled something under his breath. Iorwen gave him a nudge with his knee, and he nearly jumped from his seat. “You talk too much,” he said. “All of you. Focus more and you’d be done. The Andal has the right of it.”

Jon did not turn his gaze from the sword. He flipped it over and dipped his cloth in oil. “If you had followed your words, we would not be here in the first place. Let them talk, Horeah. I prefer that to just silence.”

“Strong words coming from you Andal,” Iorwen said. “You do tend to keep to yourself.”

Saethor licked his lips as he scrubbed. “He is a quiet one – oh gods damnit.” The blade clang to the ground, and he groaned as he bent to pick it up.

“Where are you from, Jon of the Andals?” As always, Horeah did not stop at his task to speak. “We all know where we hail from. But how big is Westeros?”

“Big,” Saethor said. “Not as big as Essos, but big.”

Jon wished they would not ask. He had hoped they would be content with just knowing him as who he was – a slave that fights in the blood pits. “What do you want to know?”

“Your home,” Iorwen said, “for starters. If you even had one, I mean. I heard from one man in the pillow house that you all migrate.”

Jon snorted. “Migrate? Like sheep?”

“Hey, it’s what I _heard_. I said nothing about it being true.”

Saethor had a wide smile. “Come now Tyroshi, even _I_ know that those Andals don’t migrate. I mean, does his hair look like a sheep to you?”

“He’s pretty enough,” Iorwen said in his defense. “I don’t think I have seen a man’s hair look so fine.”

“My hair is not fine.”

“Yes it is,” Sathor and Iorwen said. Horeah just smirked.

Jon wanted to change the subject. “What do you want to know?”

Iorwen scratched at his chin. “How about where you are from? If you are not a migrating sheep, then what?”

 _The son of Eddard Stark._ “I had a family. Brothers. Sisters. One of them would love to be here right now. She hated doing girlish things. But she loved to run and get her knees dirty…and her mother would always find a way to blame me for it.”

“Your mother was not their mother,” Horeah said.

“Aye,” Jon said. “Caused a few problems.”

“I could not imagine why,” Iorwen said in a tone that stated he could easily imagine why. “But if you are not all a bunch of migrants, just where do you hail?”

Jon thought of lying. Say the Reach or Dorne – they would not know any better. But that could create problems. One lie could bellow into a thousand. _Mix the lies and the truth together._ “I am from the North.”

Saethor raised his brow. “The North? So, what, you have a South, East and West too?”

“No,” Jon said, shaking his head. “There is the south, but the Southrons are many different people. There’s the Dornishmen, the Reachmen, the Iron Islanders and the Stormlanders –“

“Gods,” Iorwen cursed, “just what are you then? You Andals don’t make anything simple.”

“It makes sense,” Horeah said. “Like how you are Tyroshi, and Saethor is Qohorik, and I hail from Norvos.”

Jon nodded. “Aye, but I am not an Andal. The blood of the First Men is in us.”

“First?” Iorwen frowned. “At what?”

Jon shrugged. “We were in Westeros first before anyone else. We are different from the Southrons. They have knights and music and—“

“Knights?” Saethor spoke the word like it was bitter. “What’s a knight?”

“Someone who rides a horse, wields lance and sword and mace, and is covered in armor.”

Horeah frowned. “Foolish. That will just slow you down once the horse is dead. What good is armor if you can’t move in it?”

“You can move in it,” Jon said.

Haethor raised his sword towards the light. He squinted his eyes as he inspected it. “Not fast enough.”

“I don’t know,” said Iorwen, “I wouldn’t mind some armor. We are in little more than night clothes out there.”

“We are not naked,” Haethor said.

“You mean to tell me you wouldn’t mind a breastplate when you are trying to keep a spear from going through you? I know I would. Anything to keep death away.”

“The Black Goat comes for us all,” said Saethor. “You can flee from death for only so long. When he has decided your time, that’s it. You’re done. Then he will weight your heart against a hoof, and that will decide your eternity.”

Iorwen shook his head. “No, I will decide that for myself. I won’t be dying in the arena.”

“Bold words,” Haethor said, “for a Bloodsworne.”

“But they are all true. The Masters wanted me to die in the blood pits. I won’t give them the pleasure. Like hell I will. I’ll die, I know that much, but when I do, I will have a say in it. My choice, on my two feet.” He turned towards Jon. “What of you, Jon the Northman? When will you die?”

“When I am free. Once I have killed the man that put me here. And not a moment before.”

Iorwen smiled. “Aye. Those are good words, Jon. You had best live up to them. Otherwise I will haunt you for eternity.”

 

**THE MOTHER OF DRAGONS**

 

Shadow was unnerved, and Dany could not blame him. For the better part of a month he had been given enough food to live off, and minus a few watchful eyes reserved on him, was left well enough alone. Now the camp was in a bustle; everyone had two or three jobs to do, and it all had to be done before the day was out. By tomorrow morning they would be marching out for Astapor.

But Shadow did not know any of this. All he knew was, once, he was living a life a horse could only dream of, and now he was being manhandled by a few Dothraki. _Shadow is all of us._ When Dany would glance around the camp, in-between the mad rush and orders being shouted over the labor, she would see the fear in everyone’s eyes. Some would hide it better than others. Her bloodriders best of all. But the fear was hiding in the air, lurking over them like a dark shadow.

_I cannot look back._

She made her way to Shadow. “Khaleesi,” the Dothraki protested. There were no bells in his air, no victories for him. “The horse is—”

“Give me the reins.” The two Dothraki gave each other a quick glance, before they obeyed her without protest. “Shadow,” she said as she gripped the rein in one hand. “You know me.” She hushed him with a soft whisper. “Shadow.” Her fingers brushed against his nose. The coursier gave out a fearful snort, but she circled her hand against him.

He calmed. The fear went out of his black eyes. She laid the rein in the boy’s hand. Her eyes were kind for Jon’s steed. It was hard for the boy sworn to her family. “A Dothraki that does not know how to care for a horse has no place in my khalasar.”

The rider with no bells shivered, his dark eyes as wide as a saucer. “Khaleesi, forgive me.”

“Do not beg for my forgiveness. Earn it. What are your names?”

“He’s Qargo. I’m Tarbo.”

“Qargo and Tarbo, find my bloodriders. Not Jhogo, he is occupied.” _With Irri now, or soon enough._ “Rakharo and Aggo will give you instructions.”

“To do what, Khaleesi?”

“I will not have riders that cannot care for a horse Especially one that belongs to their khal. Tell them you will care for the horses.”

The one names Qargo bit his lip. “Which of the horses, Khaleesi.”

“All of them. _Go_.” They rushed off so quick a cloud of dust followed them in their wake. Dany smirked. “A year ago, they only obeyed me because of Drogo.” She gave Shadow a gentle caress. “Today they obey me only because of the dragons. But tomorrow…tomorrow…” The word hung in the air. Everyday, she needed to prove herself to her khalasar. The dragons are hers, but they can be taken. Not without blood, it but it can be done. She had to ensure that would never happen.

Shadow was a good horse. He was strong, and sure of foot. A steed worthy of a king. Viserys sat right on him well enough, but he and Jon were made for each other. Just as she and Silver were of a single mind. She gave a soft tug on the reins, motioning Shadow to follow. She could not think on Jon. Not yet. That could come later.

Tareoh Neh Khaluk was trotting past on his brown destrier. “Tareoh!” Dany called out. The Lhazareen turned to face her and raised his hand to his ear. “Get one of your Rams to take care of Shadow here!”

“It will be done Khaleesi!”

Dany gave a soft pat to Shadow’s nose and whispered him an order to behave. He snorted in response. Satisfied, Dany found herself wandering through the mountain camp. For more than a month, this was their home. Daemon will not remember these days, Dany knew. It would be lost in the fog of memory for him. Perhaps she and Jon would never tell him, keep this dark part of their lives between the two of them.

She heard Daemon before she saw him. Jhiqui was holding him close to her chest, cooing something softly into his ears as he wailed. _My son is just as much dragon and wolf_. Jon would tell her of how the direwolves that belonged to his siblings would sing together under the moon. Ghost was always silent, though, and Dany had some gratitude for that. Wolves howling in the night and dragons screeching in the day would drive Dany to madness.

“Jhiqui,” Dany said warmly. She was not disappointed that the handmaiden couldn’t placate her son – it seemed so few things could. “Is my son giving you trouble.”

“Apologies, Khaleesi. But the Khalakka is in one of his moods. Again,” she said with a frown.

He had started to calm. _Missed me so soon, little one?_ It had not seemed long since she left to oversee the work, but perhaps more time had slipped away than Dany thought. Her fingers trailed his puffy cheek, and Daemon hiccupped in response. “He has plenty of these moods.” He started to rustle. Dany sighed and told Jhiqui to give him to her. “There there, my dragon.” His tiny feet brushed against her arm, tickling her.

“The blood knows, Khaleesi.”

Dany turned to her. “What do you mean?” She began to rock Daemon back and forth. When he was first born, Dany would hold him with such care, like he was a bundle of glass that could shattered into a thousand shards. But holding him became the most natural thing in the world. She did not even need to focus on him to know that Daemon was safe in her arms.

“They don’t say it, but a child knows when something is wrong, Khaleesi. If a rider sires on a calf, the child knows it is not one of the sheep. Not truly. The Khalakka knows his father is alive, but missing.”

“He is calling for Jon.”

Jhiqui gave a respectful nod. “The son calls for the father.” The edge of her lips curled into a small smile. “We will find him, Khaleesi. Jon the Andal still lives.”

Could she dare to hope? It was a gamble, a mad roll of the dice. “I want to believe. Jon—”

Then the ringing of chimes echoed through the air. “To lose faith is to lose all, Stormbone.” Dany turned and saw Quaithe in her lacquered mask. Her robe was as black as ever, darker than the shades of night. No trace of the red dust of the mountains stained her hood, nor the sleeves. “You must pass under the shadows.”

Of all her advisors, the Shadowbinder was the one Dany needed to see the least. “I did not summon you, Quaithe.” She had barely noticed that her son’s cries had come to an end.

“Then send me away, Stormbone.”

 _Damn her._ “Jhiqui, go.” The handmaid didn’t need to be told twice. She left without hesitation, giving Quaithe a nervous glance before she rushed out of the maw of the cave. The Shadowbinder gave her no mind. “What do you want, Quaithe?”

“What do all want? Power over their fates.”

Dany shook her head. “I won’t play word games with you. I have enough on my mind.”

“Yes.” Her words were a soft song that sliced through the air. “Fear controls you, but courage is winning the war. Let it win.”

Dany narrowed her eyes. “Fear doesn’t control me. I am marching for Astapor. I will demand entry.”

“That is not the fear that rules over you.” The cave had seemed darker then. “You know what must be said. Do not be afraid, Stormbone. Be true to your name.”

The Astapori sun was scorching when Dany woke up the next morn, hoping it would relent by the time they reached the Blood Gates. Cursing the gods for it, she was wrong. The sun assaulted her from below, coating her head in a thick sheet of sweat, and the hot air rose up from the sands, sending hot waves to prick against her legs. Despite how uncomfortable it made her under the unrelenting heat, Dany had clasped over her a silk cape. The Dothraki vest covered her breasts, but left most of her belly bare. Damn if the Masters of Astapor saw it as indecent, Dany would not suffer any more than she had to. _I am thinking the sun is more my enemy than the Masters._

And besides, it showed that she was a mother. She could not bring Daemon to the front of the march, so she would show it in other ways. The cooked lines on her flesh were paper thin, but anyone with eyes could see them for what they are. _Jon and I both have our scars._ She found her fingers trailing the curves of her stomach.

All of her captains rode beside her. Ser Jorah, Tareoh Neh Kheluk, and her bloodriders. Out of all of them, only her and her Queensguard knew the Valyrian tongue, although was not so familiar with the bastard drawl of the Ghiscari. “Do not let the masters know. Let them think you need a translator. They will show their true colors then.” Her knight was a clever man, despite his appearances. His broad face did not give the image of a man who knew how to deceive. But Dany knew that all too well.

 _My brother would have called for his head at the first sign of betrayal._ And indeed, Dany should consider how he fled the Dothraki camp in the wake of Drogo’s death a betrayal. But ever since he bowed before her, he had been a loyal servant.

And how could she send Mormont away, when she kept Quaithe so close? The Shadowbinder knew too much for Dany’s liking, and she could not shake the feeling that the Asshai’I was trying to steer her on puppet strings. All of her followers wished for a better world, a better life, glory and gold; Dany could place a reason on why they bent knee to the Mother of Dragons. But Quaithe…Dany had no grasp on what she wanted.

That put more fear in Dany than the Good Masters.

The Crimson City rose above a hill, and from all sides Dany could see how it devoured the river Worm. Astapor must have blessed with cunning engineers, for the river had been carved into the hill that the city was built on. The road into the city was paved in slick stones that were covered in a layer of pink dust, but at the sides the pink path caved into slopes that led to a muddy abyss.

Dany could see a large pavilion raised a good distance from the city. _They fear me, even with less than a hundred men._ She was the mother of dragons. _Fear me they should._

“Jhogo, tell the khalasar to stop the march. The rest of you will join me in the tent.”

Inside were half a dozen men wrapped in thin sheets of beautiful silk. Most of them were gargantuan, their breasts sagging through their chitons, and they reeked of oils. Dany told herself that she would get used to the stench, but it took everything she had to keep herself from scrunching her face. They were all seated on chairs carved in the visage of a harpy; a woman with two full breasts and talons for legs, a wing for one arm and a whip firmly held in the other.

On the other side of the tent, just barely in the shade, was a pile of cushions and feather pillows. Comfortable to be sure, but the masters that had come to treat with her towered over here. The suggestion was not lost on Dany.

She showed no anger on her face. Instead, she smiled and looked towards the one man that was not seated. He was robbed, but in linen rather than silk, and his broad face showed the strain of the weight. Even in the shade, fanned as he was by thin slaves dressed in little more than loin cloths, the man was struggling in the Astapori summer. “You stand in the presence of a few of the glorious masters, born of the purest of blood, that lead the most exalted city of Astapor.” The man spoke the Common Tongue well enough, but with even a thicker accent than No-Eyes.

“Don’t give he reason to sputter her name,” moaned an old man that slouched against his seat. His fat rolls were practically rolling off of the talon arms of the chair. His Valyrian were all snorts and slurred words. “The sooner this farce is over, the better for all of us.”

But seated in the center was a master with thinly cut hair and well groomed beard. His dark eyes were fixed on Dany. “Grazdan kas Yuolikts, let her have her say. We came all this way on her behest.”

The fat Grazdan grunted. Dany had no doubt that there were more than one Grazdan seated before her. “Very well. Let her prattle on.”

The slave coughed into his fist. “And who stands before these exalted masters of Astapor?”

Ser Jorah inclined his head. “Tell them that it is Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, and the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms, that has come to meet with them.”

“Queen?” spurted one of the masters. “The Sunset Savages put crowns on their queens, do they not? Where is hers?”

“Between her legs. Have her spread for us, and we’ll see it soon enough. Rather coarse for a crown.”

“Kraznys,” said the calm master, “still yourself. We’ll be here until nightfall if we all speak at every opportunity.”

Kraznys grunted, and his breasts wobbled against his robe. _He has fuller breasts than I do, and Jon loved the weight of mine in his hands._ “Apologies, Paraszys. But you know me. I am restless when I do anything that displeases me. And this,” he said as he pointed his fat finger towards Dany, “Dothraki whore displeases me greatly.”

The one named Paraszys smiled and looked towards the slave. “Master Kraznys mo Nakloz raises a valid point. Tell her that we value the treasures her…Master Grazdan,” he said, facing a thin wisp of a man with no more than three strands of bone white hair on his face, “what was the Andal called?”

“A knight,” croaked the second Grazdan.

“The knight gave us a gift of peace. But why should we allow her into the city? Her husband tried to destroy us.”

The translator gave a polite smile. “Master Paraszys sol Nierhols thanks you for the gift that your knight granted us.”

“It was a gesture of peace,” Dany said. She pretends to not notice the way some of the masters leer at her belly. Only Paraszys sol Nierhols seems unaffected by her. His eyes are brown pits.

“Yes,” the slave says, but Master Paraszys is also wary. Your husband wanted to sack Astapor.” _Drogo wanted to rape it, just as he had a hundred other cities. Just as he would me, in the vain hopes I would give him a son._

“I am not my husband. I am a young woman and mother that dreams of home.” _And of ripping your lecherous eyes out for taking Jon away from me. Mix the lines in with the truth._ “Tell the Master Paraszys that I have come with peace in my heart. Tell him the war is over.”

Paraszys sol Nierhols listened, a fist rested on his lips. He had a cool face, one that Dany could easily unravel. _It is a mask_. Jon had told her that his lord father would often put up a new face when dealing with the lords of the North. A hard face that projected nothing but strength. “Hierzaks rul Tzarjaz, what you make of this?”

A man with feathers for brows shrugged. He sucked on a cherry, and the red juices turned his puffy lips into pink worms. “She did give a generous gift. Khal Drogo must have left a sizable bounty. What did your mercenary say of what he saw in the chaos after the Khal’s death?”

“Bloodbeard said the Golden Horde ripped itself apart.” Daenerys felt a chill at the name. _Bloodbeard? The man that sold Jon to these slavers?_ She was tempted to ask about it. More than tempted, she was desperate of anything regarding the fate of Jon. Her throat went dry.

Ser Jorah must have noticed. “Her Grace is not without her wealth. Chests filled with jewels and golden coins, bounties from her husband’s many conquests…” And then, a distant shriek from one of the dragons filled the air. Many of the masters shared a glance, but Paraszys sol Nierhols remained firm.

“My dragons”, Dany said.

It took a little bit of time before the slave could transcribe the words. When he reached the part about her dragons, he seemed hesitant, unsure, not certain that he heard quite right. But when he had finished, all the Masters were eager and hungry. Dany could even see a small glimmer in the eyes of Paraszys. “Her dragons?” Kraznys mo Nakloz spoke the word in a long drawl, savoring the weight of it on his tongue. “She would offer her dragons? What does the Sunset Whore want in return? Ask it of her!”

The translator gave a polite smile. He clasped his hands together in a confident gesture. “The Masters are intrigued by your proposal. The wealth of the Khaleesi of Vaes Sash has been made clear to them. But what would you want in return?”

“The Unsullied,” Dany said. She gave an ignorant smile, the type a little girl would give. “I imagine my wealth should be enough for all of them. How many are within the city?”

When the slave turned towards the masters and raised a question, Master Kraznys rubbed his nose and gave out a snort. “Don’t tell her that.  We can give her five thousand, and we’ll be richer for it.”

“Too much a risk,” said the first Grazdan. “The bitch looks simple, but her followers will not be so fooled. Do not risk the ire of the Dothraki.”

Hierzaks rul Tzarjaz rubbed his chins. “Why would they follow such a foolish girl?”

“For what is between her legs,” said another Grazdan. “Look at her. The beauty of Valyria. Not even the pleasure whores of Lys can compare. My son could fill her with a dozen children, and her breasts would still be full and plenty.”

“You think they all have their turn with her? Look at the Andal savage. He must plow her every morning. No other reason he would support her.”

“Without a doubt.”

Dany took in a sharp breath, but she kept up a smile. _You expected this. Play them for fools. Imagine their heads on spikes if it helps. But do not let them know that you know. Give not a hint._ She looked to the slave, and gave him a curious glance. “Is there anything I should be concerned about? I thought I gave a gracious offer.”

“You did. The Masters are simply discussing your offer.”

Kraznys mo Nakloz plucked a cherry from a golden plate. “What is she blabbering about?”

“The Westerosi is concerned that you will not take up her offer.”

“Tell her,” Paraszys sol Nierhols slowly said, “that we need time to assess the Unsullied.”

 _They are trying to rob me._ “If the masters dislike my offer, tell them I could reach the Free Cities. How many companies would accept my treasures, I wonder?” She tapped a curious finger to her lips. “At least a dozen, I am certain. And with my dragons behind them, I have more than a chance of taking back my home. They are not the Unsullied…”

When the slave finished, the first Grazdan took in a sharp breath. “She would not dare trek to the Free Cities on foot, would she? She would have to pass through the Demon’s Pass!”

“The whore may be so foolish,” gritted Hierzaks rul Tzarjaz. “She would be so ignorant, as to think she can survive where thousands have fallen.”

Paraszys turned towards Kraznys mo Nakloz. “You will offer her your pyramid.”

The pig eyes of the master nearly leapt out from his skull. “I will _what_?”

“You shall home the Targaryen and all her followers within your home. You will lavish luxuries upon her, offer her the finest of your slaves for her to bed, gift her oils and perfumes. Anything she needs, you shall offer. We need time to discuss the Unsullied, and we cannot afford her to wander off. Not with the treasures she offers.”

For the first time, Dany saw the masters go quiet. Kraznys mo Nakloz swallowed, and noddle feebly. “My family’s home is welcome to her pleasure.”

“Excellent. Slave, tell the Dragon Queen that Astapor has opened herself to her. She is our most honored guest.”

 

**THE KING IN THE NORTH**

 

It was after they had taken Ashemark when Lord Randyll Tarly arrived with a company of men. Ten thousand soldiers, bowmen, riders and spearmen arrived under the rose of Highgarden, the hunter of Tarly, and the tower that earned the Hightowers their name. Not to mention a few more houses that were alien to Robb. He would need to learn them, now that he was their king.

Robb didn’t need Tarly to take the keep, but the late arrival only reminded him of Walder Frey. Mother thought otherwise. “There are few battle commanders more famed than the lord of Horn Hill. And he has earned it, my son, trust me on that. Between Mace Tyrell and his liege lord, Tarly is the more dangerous by far.”

Robb had given his mother a doubtful look. “He is sworn to his liege lord, whose daughter I have just wed. How dangerous can the man be?”

“He was the only one to force Robert Baratheon into a retreat.”

After that, Robb knew how he would present himself. He was dressed in a cloak of wolf fur and a leather surcoat – the one with the most scratches and frayed at the stitching. _Let him see me as a warrior king._ His mother had informed him of how Randyll Tarly accused Robb of hiding behind his mother’s skirts. He wouldn’t bring it up, but he would do everything to prove him wrong.

And he would not ride out to meet him. Robb was king now, not just of the North and the Riverlands, but the Reach as well. He had the right to call upon the hundred thousand strong that fell under Mace Tyrell’s jurisdiction. A lord should approach his king. He waited in the long hall of Ashemark, lit with wax candles that hung from the stone walls. Grey Wind was by his side.

The Lord of Horn Hill was impressive. Nothing about him suggested weakness. He was lean and balding, with a gristly grey beard. Robb saw a few scars have marked his face, but only a few. “Your Grace,” Lord Tarly said with an incline of his head. His voice was as hard as iron.

Robb took on the face of the king. The one that gave away nothing. “My Lord,” he honored, “welcome to Ashemark. You made good timing on the ride from Bitterbridge.”

“I secured the rear for my Lord Tyrell, as well as the stores held at that keep.” He motioned at a young man, dressed in the blue and green of some house Robb couldn’t recognize. He approached his king and laid a curling piece of paper in his hand.

Robb unrolled the parchemtn and read it over. “You did well in this, Lord Tarly. I won’t need to worry about pillaging too much of Tywin Lannister’s lands now. Surely the Westermen won’t despite our presence too much now.”

“The feelings of your enemies should not be your concern. Your Grace.”

“It’s not,” he said as he returned the report to the page, who left with a curt and silent bow. _Randyll Tarly must have obedience drilled into all of his men._ Robb did not miss the impassive look in the boy’s eyes. _Or fear, perhaps._ “See that the stores are prepared for transport. How ready are your men for march?”

“They are ready.”

“Then by tomorrow we will leave Ashemark behind. The Crag lies along the coast.”

“Strips of land,” he said. “What good will this do us? If you mean to sap Casterly Rock of provisions, it will still be a very long siege.”

Robb must have looked smug. Already he had the upper hand. He tightened his hand into a fast at his lip. _Be still. Look as a king should._ “Has my goodfather not informed you?” He saw Lord Tarly crossed his hands behind his back. “Then let me.” Robb rose from his seat and made his way down the steps. Across one of the tables was sprawled the map of the Westerlands and the surrounding territories. “Casterly Rock is not my goal.”

“Then what do you intend?”

“To force Tywin Lannister to fulfill his most primary duty. The one thing he cannot allow his ambition to overwhelm. The need to protect his land.” Robb laid a finger on Harrenhal. “So long as he remains here, he is free to bring ruin to my uncle Edmure. To my people. He needs motivation to return home.”

“And you have given it to him.”

“As much as he would love to rescue the Kingslayer, he cannot do that if his bannermen leave him for their homes. And a commander that loses the support of his lords will have no army to lead. He has to march west. He has to return home.”

“He has to march past Riverrun.”

At that, Robb smiled. “My uncle Edmure has his orders. To hold Riverrun, and to protect my rear guard.”

“And will he just allow Tywin Lannister to just pass? Allow forty thousand men to just sweep under his nose?”

“My Lord, he already has. I received the raven yesterday. Twin Lannister has passed the Tumblestone. I have sent six hundred men to harry his forces, to drain every step he takes. When he arrives at the Crag, we will be waiting.”

“You mean to face him in a pitched fight.”

“That My Lord, I do. This war will end one way or another. And likely, it will end my way. Even without the full might of the Reach, we number nearly a hundred thousand strong.”

“Your Grace, numbers do not win wars.”

“No, but they do help. The Crag is moutaneus and hilly. He will be facing us uphill.”

“He would be a fool to try.”

“He would be a fool not to. If he doesn’t fight us, we will just burn the Westerlands around us. The Riverlands got enough of a taste of blood and fire for my own liking. I imagine it time for the Lannisters to have a helping.”

There was the smallest twitch of a smile on Tarly’s face. “Bold plan. Part of your war will end right here. If you win.”

“That is war, My Lord. Whomever wins the most battles tend to become the victor. Be sure your men are ready to march by tomorrow.”

“It will be done, Your Grace.” He left without another word, save for a curt nod. _I think he likes me._ Robb wasn’t quite sure if that was preferable to just being on Lord Tarly’s good graces, but he would take what he could get. If he had earned the trust of the Lord of Horn Hill, then the worst was behind him. Save for Tywin Lannister. Every step of the campaign was in that man’s shadow. Robb had dealt with his family, those bannermen sworn to his house, and his own son was a prisoner in Riverrun.

But Twyin Lannister had always eluded him. Lord Bolton should have taken him at the Green Fords, but even though that defeat allowed him the better ones in the Whispering Woods and at Riverrun, the Lion of Lannister was still commanding his forces. He still set the Riverlands to flame, put Uncle Edmure’s people to pike and sword. _My people. I am their king, their lords swore themselves at my feet._ Word of the marriage had to have reached Tywin’s ears by now. He knew that he would be marching against a force twice his size.

And still, he was coming. Robb wanted to say it was because he had no other choice, but he knew that wasn’t true. He could still fortify himself within King’s Landing. That would be the worst possible outcome, but it would secure his forces. It would languish everything Robb had done in the Westerlands.

Robb found himself wandering the camps. He often did, after he knew what had to be done. Once he decided the next course, he had to see the faces of the men. It wasn’t about second thoughts. It was about knowing the cost of being a king. Every step was mired in the lives of men. Robb had to see their faces, see the men who laughed, see those that were stirring the food in their kettles, the one that stood watch as they leaned on their spears.

It was those with the Reach that concerned Robb the most. Too few of them had ever charged on the field. Many of them were knights that were taught combat. They had acted as pages, were trained as squires, jousted in tournaments, fought in melees. But had they ever heard the echo of a thousand horses as they screamed against each other? The bitter song of a thousand steel swords clashing in the distance? Had they ever felt the wailings of a dying man seep into their bones?

Robb suspected not.

But every one of Tywin Lannister’s men knew battle. Whatever remained of his forty thousand, they would not flinch when their commanders ordered the charge.

The Rains of Castamere were echoing in his head when Robb ran into Loras Tyrell. His good-brother was sitting spread legged over a stump of a tree, his fingers outstretched above a crackling flame. “Your Grace,” he said in Robb’s approach.

“I must admit Lord…Loras, I mean. I did not expect you out here. I thought I would be-“

“In a tent?” he smiled. “Perhaps a minstrel singing a song to me while an attendant saw to my hurts? You forget that I am a knight. I know what It means to march in the dirt and sweat.”

“None would ever question your valor on the field, Ser.”

“But not on the march?” Loras sighed. “Would you like to warm yourself by the fire? As you Starks like to say, winter is coming. The night is chilly.”

In truth Robb would rather stay on his feet. He didn’t like to be still when his mind was filled with ideas of what would come. But he couldn’t see a reason to deny his goodbrother’s invitation. He took his place across from Loras.

“What is on your mind, Ser Loras?”

“Why not just Loras? You have wedded my sweet sister. Not unusual terms when we are alone.”

“You are also the first member of my Kingsguard.” That was one of the terms Mace Tyrell put forth. At first he was adamant that Loras be the Knight-commander of his personal guard, and thus be mandated a seat on all of his war councils, but his son insisted otherwise. He implored that all he wanted was to serve his king, to protect his queen, and watch over his nieces and nephews. “Kingsguard,” Robb muttered. “Such a Southern thing. I didn’t need a guard of men around me. I have my army.”

“Maybe that is true when you are leading from a camp. But what about when you are king? You will need men around you. Can’t expect to keep an army with you in…well, wherever you shall rule from.”

“Kings Landing,” Robb said with a point. “You were about to say Kings Landing.”

Ser Loras shrugged. “I know what my father wants. He wants his daughter to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Winterfell is very far from Highgarden, after all.”

“And colder,” Robb smiled. “Seven forbid, my good-father grows a chill whenever he would visit his grandchildren.”

Loras smiled back. “Already you talk of children? I didn’t realize the marriage was _that_ fruitful, Your Grace.”

At that, Robb was reminded of the bedding. There was no passion in the ceremony, and Margaery was all but a stranger to him when she was carried into his tent. She was almost naked beneath her shift, and Robb did his best not to stare. But such a task was impossible. “There is no need for modesty, my husband,” Margaery said as she tilted his face to look at her. “Now, unless you prefer to be wed to Margaery the Maid for the rest of our years, I believe we have some work to do.”

And labored they did. _I shouldn’t have enjoyed it as much as I did. Not after I spurned the Freys for it._

“Well,” Robb said, “it will happen. Sooner or later. In Winterfell, if I had my say. That is my home, my birthright. It’s why I am here in the first place. I am fighting for my people.”

“In the North, the Riverlands, and now in the Reach. A very weird kingdom, that is divided by its enemies.”

“That surrounds its enemies,” Robb insisted. “Riverrun is east of Casterly Rock, and Highgarden is south of it. Both are just a few week’s march away from King’s Landing and Storm’s End. Fighting us is like wrestling with a hydra. We have too many damn heads.”

“Now if only we had some dragons. I have to say, a three-headed dragon has a better look than a three-headed wolf.”

Grey Wind had upturned his head at that. “A dragon,” Robb said under his breath. “Have you heard what they have been saying about my brother Jon?”

“I don’t care to listen to rumors.”

“Now that’s a lie. Be honest with me, Loras, or do I have to start commanding you and call you Ser?”

The Kingsguard sighed. “None of your Northemn believe a word about your father. That he wanted to put your bastard brother on the throne with Daenerys Targaryen at his side.”

“And those from the Riverlands? Those that came with my marriage?”

“The entire realm knows of your father’s reputation, Robb. He didn’t become the “Honorable Lord Eddard Stark” by accident. But who knows anything about this Jon Snow?” Loras Tyrell shrugged. He leaned on his knees, and Robb watched as he tightened his fingers around each other. “We don’t know what’s happening in Essos. But everyone seems to believe that your brother has sworn himself to the Targaryens. Some say he even planted a baby inside of her.”

“No,” Robb said with a grit. “Listen to me, Loras Tyrell. If Jon was here, right now, do you know where he would be? As my right-hand man. I don’t trust anyone else more than him. I don’t more faith in anyone else more than him. You don’t know Jon. Nobody knows Jon. My own mother doesn’t know Jon. He would never betray my family. If he did swear to the Targaryens…if he did, it was with cause. And not thinking of turning on my family. Certainly not with thoughts of that Iron Throne.”

“If that is what you believe, then maybe you are right.” Loras leaned back on the stump. “I can’t stop the men from talking, but I could give them a few reminders that they are gossiping about the king’s brother.”

“No,” he said quickly. “You do that they will suspect all the more. Think I am trying to bury a hard truth away.” He allowed a small smile to spread on his lips. “But know I appreciate the gesture.”

“We are family. We should look after each other.” Then Ser Loras stood up, and his eyes were looking overhead. “Your Grace should rise.”

Robb turned, as did Grey Wind, and he saw a man hasting in his approach. The man was breathing hard, and Robb could see the dark pools of sweat beneath his robe. “Your Grace,” he heaved as he leaned on his knees.

“Gods man,” Robb demanded, “what is it? You look like the Stranger has kissed you on the cheek.”

“It’s Maester Vyburn,” the man breathed. “He demands you come to him at once. A raven has arrived from King’s Landing.”

“Words from the capitol?” Robb could see the surprise on Loras’ face. “Must be demands of a sort. The beginnings of some bargain to be struck.”

“Perhaps,” Robb said. “Come with me then, Ser Loras. A Kingsguard is supposed to protect his king, am I wrong?”

“You are not. Lead on, Your Grace, and I shall follow.”

They made their way through the camp. When they passed by knights and pikemen from the Riverlands and the Reach, they would bow their heads or bend their knees with “My King” or “Your Grace” on their lips. But when they made their way past Northern men, in either humble tones or large boasts they would proclaim “The King in the North!” _So many ways to say the same thing._

The Maester of Ashemark was waiting for him inside the Rookery. Robb heard the ravens before he saw them. Maester Vyburn was a small man, with a full crown of light brown hair and faint freckles across his face. “Your Grace,” he said with a pitiful excuse of a bow. “I sent for you as soon as I could.”

“The reasoning must be important. The man you sent was nearly heaved over when he found us.”

“It was, Your Grace.” The Maester pulled from his sleeve a letter, with a broken seal. The wax was in a deep red, while the sigil was that of the Baratheon stag. _The Baratheon colors are black on a golden field._ “I assure you, Your Grace, if I knew the contents of the letter, I would not have read it. It should be for your eyes.”

Robb unfurled the letter. “Gods,” he breathed when he finished. “He’s done it.”

“What happened, Your Grace?” He felt Loras’ hand on his shoulder. “Robb?”

“King’s Landing has fallen. Stannis Baratheon has taken the city.”

 

**THE HAND OF THE KING**

 

The King’s reign began in blood.

Davos was not there to see it, but from what he heard, the boy Joffrey had cursed and wailed up until the bag was placed over his head. Then it was said he had whimpered and begged and pleaded until the axe fell. Lady Cersei was found dead in her chambers, along with her youngest Tommen. Poison, it was said. From what Davos heard, the throne hall was filled with the crimson and gold banners of the Lannisters before the King replaced them with the Burning Heart.

Many things happened before Davos entered the city.

The first was the choice between life and death. After the wildfire came the sea, and then the screams and the bellows as the ships were torn asunder. Davos did not know for how long he had lingered on the coral crested rocks, but it was for a very long time. Long enough for his waters to turn brown, for the sun to peel the flesh from his face, for his fingers to tremble and his thirst to grow as dry as the sands.

And all the while, Davos could only think of his boys. The _Wraith_ was torn apart, he knew, and Dale along with it. Matthos was with him on the _Black Bertha_ before was split into a thousand shards. Allard should have remained in the Free Cities. He should not have returned to lead the men on the _Lady Marya_.

His boys should not have followed him in battle. They should have stayed on Cape Wrath, on Dragonstone, in the Free Cities, as far away from King’s Landing as they could. _They should not have listened to their father. They should not have died._ But they were dead, he knew as he languished on that rock that rose from the waters of Blackwater Bay. That was the only truth he had known.

When he first saw the sail, beginning as a soft and gray image on the salty horizon, Davos knew he could let it pass. He just needed to retreat into his cave and it would sail pass him, none the wiser. The thirst was already claiming him, and the hunger would soon follow. Then his eyes would be food for the gulls, and his guts a fine meal for crabs. Death would be such an easy thing, compared to knowing that his sons died in fire.

But something compelled him to stand on those rocks and shout and wave like a mad fool. Maybe it was his stupidity. Marya said as such when he returned from delivering onions to Storm’s End. That foolishness must have returned with a hunger when he screamed and shouted, in the hopes that the sail would turn towards him.

And turn it did.

He knew that this was no place for a ship. Not one of repute. The rock that he was stranded on was one of thousands in the bay. They were scattered across the bay, like sharp and thick fingers reaching from beneath the waves. Fingers that would grasp into a fist and drag you down if you got too close. The only cogs that would chance those waters would be those that didn’t want to be seen. Davos would know – he had made the same risks a hundred times when he was a smuggler.

The ship should not be here. If it belonged to a smuggler or pirates, they would just leave him behind. If the sails boasted the banner of the Lannisters, then Davos was a dead man regardless. He could not hope to be greeted by the Burning Heart. Davos realized that as soon as he wailed and waved. He had abandoned the Father and the Mother when he stood silent while the red woman gave them to her flames. _Why would they bless me when I allowed them to be burned to cinders?_

But then the small speck became larger and more recognizable. He had nearly slipped and fallen into the waves as he leaned on the rocks, his eyes straining to see a sign, an insignia, colors on the sails. But all he could make out was the sun glaring in his eyes, the folds of a sail, and the oars of the ship as they beat into the water.

The wooden blades were becoming louder and louder, and the image of the vessel became more profound. Soon Davos could see the cog. Four men were on the oars, while a fifth was on the deck. “You,” called out the fifth man when Davos was just a jump away from the ship, “the one that is out there on the rocks. Who are you?”

 _A smuggler that rose too high. A man who did not love his sons enough, and his king too much._ “I served in the battle. I was the captain of a ship. I served the king.”

“Aye,” smiled the man, and Davos noticed that he had the silver hair of a son from Lys. “So did we. But which kind did you serve?”

“Gods forgive me, the rightful king.” The sail had no markings, no blazing symbols on its sail. But the men at the rows all had pale flesh and a violet glow in their eyes. They were Salladhor Saan’s. “Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone. I am Davos Seaworth.”

“So did we,” the man smiled. The ship drew closer. “You should be coming with us, Lord Seaworth. No doubt Saan would like a word or two with you.”

And indeed he did, although it was not until Davos was shaved, cleaned and clothed that the pirate saw him. The dead skin was scrapped from his flesh, and Davos did not know how much he missed the steams from a hot bath until the servants drew him one. He allowed him to sink into the steaming waters, the pale air pouring into his flesh. It seemed he was there for an eternity before one of the servants came for him, with bundles of clothes tucked under his arm.

When he boarded the _Valyrian_ , he looked like a man half dead. But when he stepped into Salladhor Saan’s quarters, he was dressed in soft garments and leather boots. A black belt with a silver buckle kept his brown pants from falling at his feet. It was all too extravagant for his tastes. _I wonder if the Princesses’ dolls feel the same way that I do now._ He imagined if they could talk, they would have a thing or two to say to the young lady. So would Davos, if he wasn’t already grateful beyond words for the clothes. And the bath. And the sweet grapes that he popped into his mouth.

“No, no, no, no,” Salladhor said in a breath when Davos tried to speak. “Eat first. Gorge yourself. Then talk. Here, have some cheese. Good for your pallet.”

Davos was half an animal himself as he ripped away at the food that were scattered across the pirate’s desk. He would nab at grapes, drown them away in Redwyne arbor, and pluck a few slices of cheese into his mouth, pick away at the ribs of a boar, wash his mouth in clean water, and then go back for another round of the grapes.

“Well,” Salladhor said bemused with himself, “at least I know you won’t die on me before we reach the city.”

Davos was so consumed with the food that he almost missed what the pirate said. “The city?” They were days away from Dragonstone, even with the best of winds.

Salladhor Saan smiled, and the warmth was echoed in his eyes. “King’s Landing.” He spoke the word as if it was the most precious of jewels. “Congratulations are in order, smuggler. Your king has won.”

The voyage from the rocks of the bay to the docks lasted a few hours. More than enough time for the pirate captain to fill Davos in on what happened. Despite the wildfire, the men stormed the beaches. They overwhelmed the walls, tore down the Mud Gate. By then it was all over – Joffrey had fled the field for the safety of the Red Keep, there was no sign of Sandor Clegane, and there were rumors that Tyrion Lannister was felled by one of the White Cloaks. From how Salladhor described it, the Red Keep was manned by cowards and boys. It fell quicker than the rest of the city. That was when Cersei Lannister was discovered. “The queen is dead? Queen Cersei?”

“The very same,” Salladhor said as he leaned back into his chair. It was carved from a wood as dark as a raven’s coat, the tree alien to Davos. “What a pity. I was looking forward to fucking her.”

“I told you I could not promise you could bed the queen.”

“That you did.” There was a hint of remorse in his voice. “But at least I have the vaults of the Red Keep to look forward to. I can wipe away my tears on golden stags.”

They had long since learned that Myrcella Baratheon was sent to Sunspear. She was to wed Doran Martell’s second son Trystan. That might change now that she is no longer royalty. “And Tommen? The prince? Her son?”

“Dead.” There was more than a hint of bitterness on his lips. He swiveled the jeweled chalice of wine. “Poisoned her own son. You Westerosi can be barbaric cunts when you want to be.” He drank deep.

The Blackwater Rush was filled with the corpses of the cogs and galleys. They were like broken corpses, their hulls ripped apart and lingering over the waves. Davos wondered how many years it would take to fully clear the river off all the wood and metal. And the bodies. _Good water will be hard to come by. The corpses will dirty the water. Not like those in Flea Bottom ever knew what it meant to drink clean water._

When Davos peered over the rails of the Valyrian, he saw the wooden blades beat at the water. And in some parts the current had a green glow to it. He could see the wildfire strands lingering in the dark pools, like green serpents slithering across the waters. _There will be bans on fire of any kind at the Blackwater for certain. Will the wildfire every be swept away? Can it? Will we call this river the Greenwater from now on?_

When the _Valyrian_ rowed into port, Salladhor Saan had a carriage summoned. “You imagine I’d have you walk all the way to the Red Keep?” He had a rogue’s smile, with a glimmer that rose to his eyes.

“I can ride as well as any other man.”

“Nonsense. In your condition, it would take just a whiff of some shit for you to fall off from your horse. Would be a poor way for you to die, after surviving that firestorm.”

As they rode through the streets, the pirate smiling and speaking nonsense all the while, Davos could only peer out from the window. _When we left, it was for our lives. Stannis had no allies, and he knew that Joffrey was created from incest. Now I ride through the city, and he has become the rightful king._ But the people looked no different. Sure, they looked at the smuggler-turned-lord that rode in the carriage, but they still had the same looks on their faces. They still struggled in the same way, bartered like they did a week ago, spoke the same way they did a moon before.

Nothing has changed. Everything has changed.

It was not any of the Gold Cloaks that guarded the path into the Red Keep, but men that wore the teal and white of House Velaryon. “Gods, is that the Onion Lords?” said the man with a pale beard as he peered into the carriage.

“I would hope so,” smirked Salladhor, “or else I have captured one hell of an imposter. Let us through, will you?”

At that they would have tapped their spears against the road, or hollered for the gates to be raised, if the gate wasn’t already a bent and cracked ruin. There were no gears that could be pulled, and the hinges were so battered and torn that it was a wonder the gate still stood at all.The Velaryon men stepped out of the way and allowed the carriage to trot on past.

With a hoot and a holler, Salladhor charmed some of the men to escort them to the king. None of them were the golden cloaks of the city guard. Rather they were adorned in the colors of Florent, Celtigar and Caron. _No doubt Stannis has purged the courts of any that aligned with the lions. But he can’t expect to have the city defended by sworn swords forever._ Salladhor was speaking, but Davos couldn’t say he was listening. He would nod or mumble something in return, but he allowed the pirate to fill the silence.

For all the ravages the bay experienced, the Red Keep seemed untouched. They were a few signs of battle, in the form of doors that were torn down or some broken benches and tables, but otherwise the castle seemed as how it always was. A big red thing in the distance that would forever be the heart of the Seven Kingdoms.

Davos passed by a window, and from below he could see the gardens. They were green, and white, and blue, and red, and beneath the flowers and the pointed trees he could see the godswood. The pale husk and the crimson leaves rose high. In a way, the leaves of the Northern gods almost looked like fingers. He wondered what they would be grasping for.

There were whispers in the halls. Courtiers for the king, sons of lords sworn to Dragonstone, noble ladies and attendants. They were all staring at Davos. _I live. Yes, the father who outlived four of his sons._

“How many stairs are in this damn castle? Davos, take it from a friend. Your homes are much too big here. You Westerosi could do for some modesty.”

Davos had to snort at that. “A pirate, saying that we need to be modest?”

Salladhor shrugged off that response, in such a way that it looked charming. “Extravagant with sense, as I like to call it. Just how much further until we reach that king of yours? Been half a day since I found you, and I am awaiting this reunion with bated breath.”

In truth, it was not much longer. They were led to the King’s solar, a large room with twin hearths and a bed large enough for three. But when they entered, it was not Selyne Florent that was at the King’s side, as he peered out the window with his back turned, but Melisandre of Asshai. The woman was as pale as ever, but her hair was all the more crimson and fierce. “I welcome you again to the living, Davos Seaworth.”

“Melisandre.” The honor was all gruff.

The King turned. There was no crown on his head, but doubtless Stannis Baratheon saw no need for it. When not in court or handling petitions, Davos doubted the man would ever wear it. “Davos. I took you for dead.”

“There was no need for such doubts, my king.” Melisandre had a knowing look on her face. “I saw Lord Seaworth in the flames. The Lord of Light was not done with him.”

Salladhor Saan was quick to mutter a few prayers under his breath. “Well, I should be on my way. This one knows the courtesies of pirates when their captain is not around.”

Stannis narrowed his eyes. “You would not talk of our contract?”

The pirate smiled with a glint in his eyes. “Always time for that, Your Grace. You aren’t going anywhere, and neither is your gold I suspect.” And with a twist in his steps he strolled out from the solar, leaving Davos alone with the King and his red witch from Asshai.

It was then that he realized that Stannis was king, in both title and power. “Your Grace,” Davos said on bent knee. _My wits must have left me on the that rock in Blackwater._

“Up with you,” Stannis commanded. “Words should be shared, Davos.”

“Alone?” he said with some hope.

“With her and I, and you.” The King motioned him towards a table. “Sit, Davos. Did the rogue feed you?”

“Salladhor Saan provided you with many ships and men, Your Grace. And feed me he did.”

“The man is still a pirate, despite how useful he proved to be. We used each other in equal turns – he to secure me my rightful throne, and I will reward him with gold from my treasury.” The King gritted his teeth, an act that Davos was all too familiar with. “Gold that should be used to set my kingdom to rights.”

Davos sat at the far end of the table, while Melisandre remained close to the King. “And without that gold, you would not be here now.”

The King’s fingers were linked with each other in a firm grip. “Tell me what you know, Davos.”

“I know the Queen is dead. Tommen was a sweet boy. He did not deserve to die.”

“He was a creation of incest and a threat to my rule. His sweetness had nothing to do with it. But that was not my doing. Surely Davos, you will not blame Cersei’s vile act on my hand?”

Davos quickly shook his head. “I would not. I thought many things of Cersei Lannister…but to imagine that she would murder her—"

“Once a Maester is appointed, ravens will need to be sent proclaiming Myrcella as a Waters.”

“And what of Maester Pycelle?”

“Returned to Oldtown on the swiftest ship we could find. We are well rid of him. I’m sure there is a fierce argument on who to replace him.”

“There is no doubt to that, My King.” The woman’s ruby choker seemed to gleam with every word. “The fires will surely reveal to me the man. We will know before they even think of it.”

 _Did you foresee the wildfire? Were the green flames in your visions? The death of my sons?_ “Your Grace,” Davos said, “your Small Council would surely want to have a say on whom to take that seat.”

“Without a doubt. Consider it in session, Lord Seaworth.”

“Lord Hand,” the sorceress smiled. “We must remember our courtesies, Your Grace.”

Davos blinked. “Your Grace? You don’t mean—”

“I don’t mean,” Stannis Baratheon said in an iron tone. “I decree. Davos Seaworth, I would name you to be Hand of the King.”

He meant to say something, but somehow every word seemed to stay glued on his tongue. “Your Grace,” he swallowed, “I can’t. I mean, there are others. Better men, more worthy men, with more noble blood.”

“Yes,” King Stannis said, “men with noble blood. Men with names. Men who swore at my feet because they had to. But none smuggled in onions and beats into Storm’s End when I and my men were starving. None served me because they chose to.” He pointed a finger at Davos. “Unlike you, Onion Lord.”

“The Lord of Light blesses those who are loyal and true, Davos Seaworth.” Her red eyes gazed upon him. “Stannis Baratheon is the Lord’s anointed and chosen. If he wishes to make you his Hand, who are you to deny him?”

“I do not know what to say.”

“Then say nothing,” Stannis said as he rasped the table with his hard knuckles, “except that you would take the seat, and will always give me true counsel.”

 _Why should I when so many more capable men died? My sons have died. How can a father who lost so many strong boys take on such a thing?_ But when Davos looked into the hard eyes of his king, he knew that he had no choice. “Then I must accept.”

“Good,” Stannis said with a short nod. “Then tell me, Hand of the King. What is there to be done about the Imp?”

“Tyrion Lannister lives?”

“The dwarf,” Melisandre said in a sweet voice, “is on the brink of death. There is a fire in him, barely embers, flickering in the darkness. But he lives.” Melisandre pinched her fingers. “It would take only a breath to dampen his flames forever.”

Stannis clenched a fist on the table. “He is Tywin’s son. Brother to the Whore Queen and the Kingslayer. Do you think he knew of the incest?”

“Possibly, Your Grace.”

“Then he would be guilty of treason. I would have him executed for it.”

“Your Grace,” Davos said quickly. Both he and Melisandre were looking at him with a hard look in their eyes. _I am the King’s Hand now._ “The Queen is dead, and the Jaime Lannister is a captive of the Starks. Tommen may have been a product of incest, but Your Grace he was just a boy. How old was he, ten years?”

“Two and ten,” answered the King.

He was starting to feel light headed. It was not too long ago when he was roasting under the sun on his rock. But words needed to be said. The King wanted his counsel, and he would have it. “Good men have died taking this city. Good men have died defending it. Tyrion Lannister may be little loved, but there is another answer besides his death. You often said that Jamie Lannister should have taken the black. Let his brother take the oath instead.”

“Let the man who raised sword and armies against me live out his life on the Wall?”

“Your Grace,” Davos said, “four of my sons are dead because of that man. No doubt that the Imp was behind the wildfire and the chain that trapped your ships in the Bay. In this room, if anyone has the right to demand that one’s head, it should be me. And I am saying, let him take the black. Let his twisted balls freeze out on the Wall. Do not let your reign begin in blood. Not like King Robert’s had.”

“This is your first piece of counsel to me?” Davos could feel the King’s iron gaze on him. “Let the Imp freeze on the Wall? My lords demand blood, Davos.”

“Well, Your Grace, to that I would advise them to be patient. Tywin Lannister still lives. Jaime Lannister is rotting somewhere in the Riverlands. If they want to see Lannister heads on a pike, we shall have ample opportunity. But if we utterly wipe out the Lannisters, who from the Westerlands will trust us? You are a fair man, Your Grace. Hard, but fair. You do not hunger for blood.”

Stannis turned towards Melisandre. “And what of you? Did your Lord of Light say anything about the Imp?”

“No, My King. I have seen no mention of an imp in the flames.” She looked to Davos and smiled. He could feel something cold grip at his guts. _I should put my hands around your throat. I know you saw the wildfire in your visions, and you said nothing. My sons died because you kept silent._ “This Tyrion Lannister is of no consequence.”

“Then give him the offer,” said the King. “Let him have his one chance at serving the realm. And if he refuses, we will give him a trial. It won’t take long. Serve or die; offer that to the Imp.”


	16. The Ruin of Lions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle of Blackwater changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So another few weeks, another chapter! "The Ruin of Lions" was one of my most favorite chapters to write (well, some parts were) because it pretty much puts the fic off rails. The fic finally earns the moniker of being an "AU" after this chapter.
> 
> So, anyways, as always, you can go to the website for the fic and read the chapter with a selected soundtrack. As always, I recommend that you do so. As always, feel free to ignore my recommendation and read it on AO3. 
> 
> http://wp.me/P7Obn3-4P

**XV**

**THE RUIN OF LIONS**

**THE LADY OF WINTERFELL**

 

Behind the stone walls of Ashemark, Catelyn waited. It had seemed that this day has been coming for years and years. Ever since she had received that letter from Lysa. She had never thought that it would come to this, two armies on an open field, one king against the grandfather of another. When she had set forth from Winterfell with Ser Rodrik, Cat had imagined that it would be settled by a decree from King Robert. _That was a mother’s hope. A fool’s hope._ Admittedly now, as she looked beyond the foggy hills, Cat realized that it would always come to this.

Wolf against lion, sword and mail and spear tangled in among the screams of the dying and the victorious roars. A battle upon the open field, husbands and sons armored in plate and rushing forth with spear and swords, was too dangerous. Better to strangle Tywin Lannister league by league, forcing him to earn every scrap of land he took back from Robb. Outriders to harry his riders, send scouts against scouts, ambush his supply trains. And to her son’s – no, her _king’s_ credit – he accomplished all of that. Tywin Lannister was bled from the moment he set out from Harrenhal.

But there was only so much that the King in the North could do. Tywin would not barter under a white flag, not while he still had an army. Not when he could fight. He still had his claws, and Robb had his fangs…as well as the thorns of the Tyrells. It was not the full force of the Reach that marched behind her son, but Tywin Lannister’s force was dwarfed by the one that her son led in his van.  

No victory has been more assured. Lady Margaery was confident that she would see her husband once again. Fear should not grip at her heart as it did, but Catelyn could not dispel it. Robb would be surrounded by the largest army in all the kingdoms. If Tywin sought the life of her son, he would need to cut through a wall of iron and steel. There was only one time that a force so large was routed, and it was done when Aegon the Conqueror brought his three dragons onto the field.

Tywin Lannister did not have three dragons.

Just a week past, the hills outside Ashemark had been filled with banners, pavilions and the sounds of Robb’s army. Now, the only thing Catelyn could hear was the wind that howled over the hills. Well, the wind and the hundred men Robb had left behind to safeguard his mother and his queen. Catelyn insisted that only twenty would be more than enough, an argument that even Margaery Tyrell had taken up. Robb had insisted on a hundred, and he had won the argument. His marriage had only seemed to bolster Robb, made him more confident, more decisive in his actions.

The day before he had set out to march, Robb’s crown had sat easy on his red head. It was the first time in a long while that Cat had ever seen such a thing. Had she ever? _No crown should rest easily on a man’s head._ Robert Baratheon grew used to the way his crown settled on his head, and the kingdoms sundered after his death. _And he turned on his friend._ Catelyn would not believe the lies that Ned would put his bastard and the Targaryen exile on the throne.

Catelyn’s memories and doubts lingered with her just as much as the fog clung to the hills. Robb had the advantage. Tywin would be marching up towards him, while Robb would be leading the charge down the hill, his men pushing their spears through the Lannister vanguard. It would not be by Tywin Lannister’s choice, but Robb had given him no other option. His men had ambushed the Lannister train at every opportunity, cutting off their paths of retreat, pushing and prodding them towards the hills of Ashemark. Any towns or forts that the Lannister army could have holed up in were desecrated, in one form or another. Either by tearing down the walls or setting the fields ablaze, Robb had forced Tywin Lannister’s hand. He could only move forward.

Ashemark was his only option.

When Robb had claimed victory, a raven would be sent. They had brought Maester Vyburn along for such an occasion, leaving Ashemark void of any maester to attend to it. Not that the keep needed much attendance. Lord Damon Marbrand and his wife Lisbeth were kept imprisoned, but in comfort. But no lord had need of a maester when he was a prisoner within his own castle, and so Robb took Vyburn onto the field.

But Ashemark was not a large keep. Even in Winterfell, when Catelyn drew closer to the Maester’s Tower she could hear the cawing of the ravens.  And the keep of House Marbrand was not even half the size of the Stark seat. The ravens were relentless in their screeches. Robb had left some of Vyburn’s assistants behind to care for the birds, but Catelyn suspected they were capable of little more than feeding the ravens. Cat could never imagine that Vyburn would allow such a standard to be upheld, if he had hoped to keep his position.

But she could deal with the noise. She could even deal with the increasingly shortened temper of Lord Damon. No doubt that his son Addam was in the Lannister army, and her son was riding against him. The cries, of ravens and Lord Damon both, she could deal with.

The one thing that Catelyn could not deal with, was to wait. So much of her life was spent waiting. She would always wait for her father as he would ride out, and she had waited for Eddard when he had ridden out to war and had made a son with her. It was that very same son that she waited upon, somewhere beyond the fog crested hills, fighting to put an end to the Lannisters forever.

Robb’s last words before the march were not for her. Margaery Tyrell had ridden out to her husband, and they had whispered some words between each other. It was too soft for any but they to hear, but there was a small smile on both of them. Then he had given her a tender kiss, and for a moment his fingers seemed to hesitate leaving hers. But such an illusion was a dispelled when he gave out a command, and that command was echoed by his lords, and the army marched away.

Now Ashemarke was quiet, a keep of whispering winds, and all Catelyn could do was wait. Wait, and listen to Margaery Tyrell. She had to give the woman credit, and thank her for not filling the silence with noise. Margaery had filled it with a silence of her own, crafted from bold smiles and a glistened pride in her eyes. Catelyn feared that her son would not return, nursed the doubt of the very worst.

Margaery Tyrell did not have those doubts. Catelyn could not blame her for that. She was not yet a mother, had not yet felt a heart beat in rhythm along her own. She was once a widow…but if half of what Catelyn had heard were true, then Margaery came to Robb’s wedding bed a maiden. How close were they, Lord and Lady Baratheon, how much did Margaery mourn her husband’s passing?

Did Margaery Tyrell consider herself blessed, that a shadow in the night had killed Lord Renly? Catelyn wondered how much say Margaery had in her marriage to Renly Baratheon. Cat imagined none at all. But she had more than a say in her marriage with Robb. She and Cat conspired in the shadows of Renly’s death, and laid the groundworks for the alliance that would firmly place Robb as the dominating power. The North, the Riverlands and the Reach – almost half of the kingdoms were joined behind him, proclaimed him as their King in the North. The Stormlands were behind Stannis, the Wersterlands behind Tywin, and Dorne stood alone.

Margaery Tyrell wanted be queen, but Catelyn suspected that she wanted to be a queen of her own making. _And if my son should return, you will be._

But what did Mace Tyrell want? Catelyn suspected that he wanted to accumulate as much as he could, with as little resistance as possible. How long did he linger at Storm’s End, after how many petitions from King Aerys to enter the field? He leapt from Renly, who seemed before his murder such a sure thing, to Robb.

Lord Mace could have pledged himself to the Lannisters. But Cat knew just whom Petyr Baelish was sworn to, whom he would advocate for, if he had managed to get himself alone with Lord Lannister. She wondered what he could do, deep beneath the rocks of Bitterbridge. Petyr could wiggle his way out when the war was won, when Robb was safe, when he and Margaery held their first child in their arms.

When the war was won, and not a moment before.

She remembered the midnight ride, the race in the dark under the moon light, to reach Bitterbridge before any of the crown’s loyal hounds.  Margaery had told her that if their alliance was to be more than just a conversation, in order for it to be an army that would well and truly secure Robb Stark his crown, it had to be her that reached her father before any man from King’s Landing. And she had the right of it. Cat wondered how quickly Petyr had ridden to reach Bitterbridge – as it would turn out, not nearly as fast as Cat and Lady Margaery.

By the time they had reached the keep, Cat had made her mind on Lady Margaery. Even without the benefit of her name and the vast host sworn to her father, Margaery Tyrell was a worthy queen for her son. Her son’s bannermen would not long think her a delicate rose, or they would get pricked. Cat had feared that Lord Tyrell would not see to reason before the Lannister ambassador would have arrived.

She thanked the Father that he had.

But then she saw it was Petyr that had arrived, and that the Reachmen shackled him among all of his protests. All of their lives together seemed to flash before her, and his eyes looked so familiar. It was the same as when Brandon Stark had almost cut out his life. A little deeper, his sword a little higher, and Petyr would have died at the rivers that flowed around Riverrun.

But he had lived, to be a prisoner of her own making. Catelyn wanted to say that Petyr had more than a hand in it, and there was truth in that. But no matter how much Cat told herself that Baelish had signed himself with the Crown, even after Ned, she could not help but remember she and Lysa had kissed him as girls. They took turns, the two of them, sharing him. They were just girls then, and he was just a boy, but she saw so much of that boy in Petyr when he was dragged off into the cells beneath Bitterbridge.

The winds were blowing hard, whipping at her hair, as Petyr’s voice died in an echo. And again that wind returned, a soft howl on the iron as Robb led his host towards the Lannister van. Catelyn tried to remember if the day was windy when she had learned of Ned’s imprisonment, but she knew it stirred at the leaves and the grass when word of his death had reached them.

_You are my most silent companion._

Lady Brienne had also been silent as of late. Words had been harder to express when there was such a heavy veil laid over them both. Robb was nothing to Brienne, except the son of the woman that she had sworn to honor and defend. But her son’s defeat in the battle to come would spell Catelyn’s demise as well. Brienne was a woman of actions, and she found herself in a position where she could do nothing.

Catelyn would often catch her, at the corner of her eye, just looking over the hills. Brienne would allow herself to do that for only a moment, and Cat could see the apprehension in her eyes. But the Lady of Tarth would permit that for only a slice of time. Then she would refit her belt, or cough, sometimes lick at her lips, mutter an apology.

Brienne always wanted to move, Cat suspected. Some people, regardless of lords and ladies, could not remain still. To only watch and do nothing was like drowning in air to them. They were not impatient people, but they could only express life by doing. By singing and crying and laughing and dancing and fighting and expressing life one act at a time, one small deed that declared they were alive. _Arya was such a girl._

She sometimes wondered what was stirring in Lady Brienne’s mind, as she lingered silently in her garbs of steel and leather. How to escape, should the unthinkable occur? The best way to flee north, away from the Lannister swords? Was the Roseroad safe? Was Highgarden an option? Would Lady Margaery be part of such a band, as she was Cat’s good-daughter now?

It surprised Cat that she had never considered any of this. When Ned would ride off, it would be up to her to rule Winterfell in his place. She was raised and tutored in how to manage an estate, as well as how to defend it. Father had considered hiring a teacher versed in the crossbow, but he threw such a notion aside quickly enough.

If Winterfell was ever to come under siege, she would have held it for as long as she could. Winterfell had two moats, and she would have exploited them for every inch. Whatever weapon Winterfell possessed to fend off invaders, Catelyn would see it put to use.

But Cat had not thought to protect herself. She was the mother of the king. Lords sworn to her son would gladly see to her safety, without hesitation. Robb had Ashmarke fitted with a hundred men just to ensure the protection of his mother and his wife. And yet, all Cat could think of was the safety of her son, who was surrounded by the largest army in the kingdoms.

She was changed the moment her son was born, she knew. To feel life grow within you, and to see that life grow and mature…she thought of Cersei Lannister, suddenly. No matter how horrid Joffrey was, no matter the father, he was still her son, who was once a babe that she had held in her arms. Catelyn did not doubt that the moment Cersei first heard Joffrey cry, she must have thought him the most perfect creature in all the world. Just as she did, when Robb howled for the first time all those years ago.

But Cersei Lannister was dead, her and her two boys if the letters were true. Could Cat do as she did, snuff the life out of her youngest before she claimed her own? She could not think so. How long did she linger at Bran’s side, how often did she needlessly flatten his blankets, softly parted the hair from his brow, how many soft prayers did she whisper?

How fiercely did she fight for her son’s life, as the assassin’s knife cut into her hand? The scar was still there, pale and encircled around her hand. She had never felt a greater pain, and she had never held onto something so tightly in all her life. Cat prayed she never would need do so again. She had once told Brienne that birth was one sort of battle…but to fight for the life of your child was a battle Cat never wanted to feel again. To know that their lives hung onto your weak hands in such a way…

This would not be the last battle for Robb. Stannis Baratheon was waiting in King’s Landing, and he would not allow his kingdoms to be fractured as it was. He had declared Robb to be his enemy, that he would not suffer more than a single crown to his realm. Robb was not alone, she knew that, she had ensured that he had alliances. But it was his enemies that gave her pause.

Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she saw the Red Woman. She proclaimed Stannis to be Azor Ahai, but the name was alien to Cat. From what house did Azor Ahai hail from? Stannis was born from the line of Orys Baratheon and Argella Durandon, and he was the son of Steffon and brother to Robert and Renly. Catelyn knew those names; those were names that rang easily on her tongue, that were familiar and welcome in her head.

But Azor Ahai was what the Woman in Red had proclaimed him to be, and the ravens from Dragonstone hailed him as the son of the Lord of Light, and wielder of Lightbringer. She remembered the sword that Stannis waved, how it simmered but gave out no heat. Stannis had garbed himself in a foreign god, and that had seemed to grant him the Iron Throne. And there was the shadow that killed Renly Baratheon, that looked so much like his brother…

The brother that Lady Brienne had sworn to kill. Catelyn had promised she would not hold Brienne back, when the time came. But that time seemed so far away, it was like a wistful dream. A siege would not draw out Stannis Baratheon, not with the walls of King’s Landing for protection. Oh, it would have been harmed in the siege that he had summoned, there was no doubt. But while Robb was busy ending the Lannister threat once and for all, Stannis would have time to lick his wounds and prepare for her son.

Her son had more fights, that was for certain. She wondered whom would be more dangerous – the enemy they knew, or the enemy they could not even begin to understand? What magics did Stannis surround himself with, and what was the cost that he had paid for them?

Questions and doubts and fears filled her, and all Cat could do was to add fuel to the blaze.

There was a hard rain on the fourth day. The storm seemed to echo through the stones. But when the sun rose on the fifth day, the fog was gone, and Catelyn could see the green hills for the first time. She heard one of Margaery’s ladies say something, about how the woods were so beautiful, how crisp and shining the rivers looked. Margaery smiled and said something in return, but all the words seemed to flow over Catelyn.

Then all the pleasantries were cutoff at the cawing of a raven, it’s black wings flapping and clawing through the air. Cat had thought it was the loudest thing she had heard in a very long time. Its black speck grew larger and larger, until Cat could see it plain as day as it flew into the tallest tower of Ashemark.

“Robb has won the battle,” Cat said, to the silent wind, to Margaery Tyrell, and to the fears within her heart.

 

**THE KING IN THE NORTH**

 

Robb was certain he was going to die.

When the darkness came for him, he did all he could to remember. He remembered the screams of the horses, and the way the dirt was sent flying up into the air. The sky was gray, as gray as the direwolf of Stark, as the furs of Greywind. The golden men came up the hill, and Robb gave the order, and it rang down the men on their horses.

The flank broke, he remembered. The left flank, the weakest flank, always the weakest, it shattered like rotten timber. From halfway across the field Robb could make out the roar of the Greatjon, and all the men collapsed all at once. The men in their boiled leathers tumbled with the ones in their shining plates, the lances broke, the shields shattered, the swords clanged, and the song grew higher and twisted in the air.

His heart pounded and gave him a command. _Kill. Kill them all. Leave none behind._ And Robb could only say that he was doing what he could. _I am only a man. One man with a sword and a thousand men behind me._

_No you are not. You are the wolf of the North._

He remembered what he was. The wolf did not show fear. The wolf did not back away. The wolf stood with the pack, but Robb was alone. His mother was safe in Ashemark, Bran and Rickon behind the gray walls of Winterfell, Jon somewhere across the Narrow Sea, his sisters were trapped in King’s Landing, and his father was dead. _My father is dead, but I cannot show fear. A wolf is not afraid._

But he was crying. Why would he cry? That had made no sense. All Robb could taste was the salt on his lips and blood. Whose blood? It was not his, he remembered that much. He was still standing, he was still alive, he was still screaming. He was still fighting. His sword was red and heavy, and wet. How many had he killed?

 _Now is not the time for questions._ Someone screamed at him then, but Robb could not say that he heard. He heard another volley of arrows. _A wolf is not afraid_. And then he saw the golden lion of Casterly Rock. Robb was surrounded by men in leather and plate, but all he could see were those in gold and crimson.

There was the crushing of steel and flesh, and Robb could only remember the screams. Then he saw it move through a crowd. Something that was and was not a man. No man could be that tall, but what else could he be? He looked like a man, but the way he swung that sword…Gregor Clegane must have been the son of the abyss.

He remembered the Mountain. He remembered the flashing yellow behind the man’s iron mask. Robb had fallen from his horse, he remembered. That pain had rocked his sides, sent waves of ache all over him. But the Mountain had fallen as well. Was he dead? _How can a wolf kill a mountain?_

“The king!” someone had called out then, among the chaos. “Save the king!” another said, and that was all Robb could remember hearing. “Your Grace” and “Your Majesty” and on and on came the titles.

“My king,” came the voice, louder and more clear. “Can you hear me? Your Grace?”

“Robb,” he wanted to say, “my name is Robb.” His voice felt raw and worn. Robb could almost see a man standing over him. Robb released in a breath, and Loras Tyrell took shape and form. He could feel something cold and wet on his head. He sunk into the cushions around him, and a rotten taste spread around his mouth. “Loras?”

It felt like he could only say half the name, but Ser Loras smiled. “Good to see you awake, Your Grace.” Someone laid a hand on Robb’s head.

“The fever seems to be dying,” came a cautious and meandering tone. Robb knew that voice. It was one of the maesters. What was his name? It faded from memory.

Robb closed his eyes. “Let me up,” he said. His elbows were aching, but he wouldn’t let that stop him from pushing himself up. Father had told him that a lord must always look his men in the eye. Robb assumed that counted twice for a king.

“My king,” the Maester began to quickly say, “I would not do that. Your horse had fallen on you in the battle. Your legs—"

 _My legs?_ Robb threw the blankets off of him. His heart was beating through his chest. He saw his toes as they curled at his command. He gave out a sigh, and he felt relief sweep over him. “What happened?”

“Nothing permanent,” the Kingsguard said. “It was a bloody mess, but none of your bones were broken. We had to put your horse down. Good thing too, or—"

 _It was a gift from Lord Frey._ He could not remember the courser’s name. His mind felt like a fog. “Nevermind about the horse. What about the battle?”

Ser Loras shared a glance with the Maester. “We won.”

Those two words seemed to have control over time. Everything came to a stop. “We defeated Tywin Lannister?”

There was a grim smile on Tyrell’s face. “We did, but Lord Tywin proved his reputation. The left wing was a ruse. It was meant to collapse, to draw us into the might of their right flank. Gregor Clegane must have broke rank. There was no reason why he would have come for you.”

“Is he dead?”

“Who, the Mountain?”

“Lord Tywin,” Robb said behind gritted teeth.

“Oh,” said Loras Tyrell with almost a shrug. “He’s dead.”

Robb blinked. “Tywin Lannister is dead?” That was a query Robb never though he would ask. The old lion of the Rock, the man for whom the Rains of Castamere were named, the most dreaded foe in Robb’s campaign…it all seemed like a hopeless dream. Robb was certain that he was still stuck halfway in his dreams, his greatest hopes and prayers realized. _The gods are not this kind. They would not take Father to only give me such a sweet victory._ “Are you certain?”

His goodbrother gave a nod. “Your Grace, there is no doubt. I saw the man himself. He was filled with arrows. Looked more like a pin cushion than a Lord Paramount.” Loras’ smile faded before Robb’s frown. The knight coughed. “Do not let this be known to my father, but Lord Tarly turned the fight. His banner was the sweetest thing I saw while we dragged you away from your horse.”

Robb narrowed his gaze. “Why would my goodfather take fault with Lord Tarly? He is your father’s bannerman.”

“My father hates it for glory to be taken from him. Even when he is not on the field.”

“I shall have to remember that.” Robb strained to move beneath his sheets.

The Maester’s eyes went wide and pleading. “Your Grace, please, you must not move.”

With a frustrated wave Robb pushed the man away. “Grey Wind,” he said suddenly. “Where is he?”

A howl cut through the silence. “There’s your answer,” Ser Loras said with a hint of mirth. “Those direwolves are fearsome creatures. Is it true that they are common north of the Wall?’

Robb gave a stiff nod. “They came from somewhere. Not like the Old Gods whisked them out of the air.” He remembered the taste of blood from his dreams. How could he ever doubt? “Olyvar,” Robb said quickly. “My squire. Don’t tell me—“

“There is too much fear in you, Your Grace.” The Maester looked over Robb with a suspicious eye. “Tis the fever, I am certain. The traces of heat drives men to the very worst of imaginings.”

Loras shot a glare at the Maester. “Olyvar is fine, Your Grace. The boy held his own against one of the Mountain’s men. Few would doubt his loyalty after that.”

Robb was about to question whom would doubt the loyalty of his squire…but it came to him. _The Freys left me after the marriage to Margaery was made plain. Only Olyvar remained, despite my insistence to the contrary. I am a king, but only a man as well. So many mistakes I could have made…so much more could have gone wrong…_ “My lords,” he groaned. “We need to consider what happens next.”

“Robb,” Ser Loras says firmly, “you just woke. Negotiations can wait.”

“No.” _My men wait on their king. For how long should I rest?_ “Glover, Umber, Karstark, Blackwood, Hightower and Tarly, the Brackens. I would have them here.”

There was a concerned look on the Maester’s face. Gods take him, why couldn’t Robb remember his name? Did he ever know the man? There were more faces in his army that Robb had ever seen in all of Winterfell. Father said a lord should remember the faces of his people, but did he ever command a host as large as this? “Majesty, they are spread over the camp. It would take them time to gather here…and even then, they may not all fit.”

Robb sunk into his pillows. “The Greatjon then, and Glover and Blackwood. Lord Karstark as well, if you can fetch him.” _Surely his lust for blood had to be sated after this battle._ “Those can fit inside my tent, surely.”

The Maester swore he would see it done, but still insisted that His Majesty rest and recover his strength. Robb commanded them to be fetched, _today_ , and with the clanking of his chains the Maester promised he would see it done. “I would have you stay,” Robb said to Ser Loras as he rose. “Tell me what you know.”

“I would not keep my king from ruling his realm, but I would advise my goodbrother to rest. By your insistence, you’ll have a full day ahead. Relax while you can.”

“Good that you know not to disobey your king. Tell me what you know.”

“Very well,” Loras said with a sigh. “Where do you want to begin?”

“Who died would be a very good place to start.”

The Kingsguard took a seat near Robb’s bed. “Well, you know that Casterly Rock is now short one Lord Paramount. And the Mountain is dead, thank all the gods. The man had a sword sticking through his side, and he still managed to kill six men before someone managed to land an arrow in the slit of his helm. By the Warrior,” he whispered, “how could anyone be so strong? Everyone knows the story of Elia and her children…the idea that someone like _him_ could be alone with them…”

“We will send Doran Martell the skull of Gregor Clegane. They should have their justice.”

“I know just the man to send, if you’d like to hear it.”

Robb shook his head. “Dorne tomorrow, the Westerlands today. Who from our side perished?”

“Lord Arthur Ambrose. He has a son Alyn who lives yet. And there was someone named Wooder. Or Forest…”

“Gregor Forrester?” _The lord of Ironrath. Father talked little, but well, of him._

Loras Tyrell gave a nod. “That’s the one. He has a son I think?”

“His heir is Rodrik.” _And another across the Narrow Sea, if I remember right._ “Should I have him brought before me later?”

Loras gave a shrug. “That choice is yours, Your Grace. You’re the king, not I.”

He would concern himself with the new Lord of Ironrath later. “Any other of the dead I need to know?”

The knight tapped his fingers against his knee. “Quite a bit for the Westermen. Quenten Banefort took a lance to the chest, and a Crakehall took an axe to the neck. Not the lord; far too young.”

“A son, perhaps,” offered Robb, “or a nephew.”

“Maybe. I will say that we saw no sign of House Marbrand.”

“They are at Ashemark, Loras. We took their keep from them, remember?”

The knight gave his king a pointed the look. “Their son, Robb. Addam Marbrand was nowhere to be found. He had led his father’s host for Tywin Lannister. I couldn’t see any of his banners anywhere on the field.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“True,” he admitted. “But it could mean something. We’ll know for sure soon enough.”

Robb did not like the idea that a man that marched under Lord Tywin had just vanished. “See that you do. Tywin had a brother, Kevan. What of him?”

“He is ours. Would you want a block brought up?”

The idea had some appeal. Wipe out the Lannisters, just as they had done to Reyne and Castamere. But Robb had killed enough. This wasn’t a conquest. “No, ransom him instead. Casterly Rock is known for its gold. I would want to make use of it.”

“That is generous of you, Robb. I pray you are not half so generous when Stannis Baratheon is brought before you.”

 _My goodbrother is the Knight of Flowers, but he would sooner show Stannis his thorns._ More and more of what he suspected about Loras was becoming true. “What news from King’s Landing?”

Loras’ eyes went hard. His fingers balled into a fist at his knees. “Stannis Baratheon is the king on the Iron Throne. That’s all we know.”

“Tell me what you know,” Robb said, as softly as he could. “You met with the man.”

“Renly met with him,” he said. “I simply stood and watched.”

“Still, you were there. You saw them speak. Who are his advisors? What is his temperament? I have heard from my mother something of a ‘woman in red’.”

Loras did not say anything, and he turned his gaze from Robb. He had never known the Knight of Flowers to be short for words.  “What do you know of the Red God?”

Robb shook his head. “Some queer faith from the east. They worship fire, some say.”

“Well, whoever that woman worships, she sent a shadow to kill Renly.”

Robb almost snorted. “A shadow?”

“From the accounts of your Lady Mother, yes. That is what killed Renly. Not that She-Knight, but a black demon.”

“She-Knight,” Robb said heavily. “I heard she was knighted by Renly.”

Ser Loras chewed on his lip. “A woman should not be in arms.”

It was a good thing that Maege Mormont and her she-bears were not in attendance, or Ser Loras would be short some teeth. Robb considered the war counsel of the She-Bear and her heir to be worth their weight in steel. “Still,” he said, “Lady Brienne is my mother’s sworn shield. Proper titles are due her. Do we have an understanding?” His good-brother was silent. “Ser Loras?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” said the Knight of Flowers. Robb dismissed him with a wave, saying that he wanted some peace before his captains arrived. There was a dull pounding in his head, a fierce little thing that echoed inside of him. _A king is still a man. If I fell on a rock, I would have been a dead man. Who would talk of a king that died from falling off a horse?_ Robb wondered if any of the Targaryen kings or their sons had ever died in such a way. Most of them had met such violent ends, surely one of them had to perish from a ride gone wrong.

Olyvar came a short time later. His dark hair was cropped short, a ragged beard had sprawled across his face. When Robb had first met his squire, his face was as smooth as river stones. But months on the campaign had changed the both of them. Lord Frey’s son took a look at Robb’s bandages. “Would you want to be dressed, Your Grace?”

“No,” Robb said. “I am already giving my maesters a fret by being about. If I dare to actually move, they may shed their hair.”

There was a hint of a smile on Olyvar from that. “I’ll go see to the wine then, Your Grace.”

Robb saw the dark rings that had grown beneath his squire’s eyes. “How much sleep have you gotten, Olyvar?”

“Less than you, Your Grace.” Olyvar began to assort the chalices across the table. “But I do not think that is saying much.”

“How so?”

“Well,” he said cheerfully, “I do not think anyone has slept as much as you, Highness.”

Robb chuckled at that, although the pain in his ribs made him suffer for it. “True, true. But it looks like you got no rest at all.”

Olyvar hesitated before arranging the last glass. A large one fit for the Greatjon. _Last time he served as cupbearer, Olyvar had to restore Lord Umber’s glass a dozen times._ “If I had right to protest, I would have been there when you awoke.”

“I heard that you stood your ground against one of the Mountain’s men. You remained when your family returned for the Twins. I could knight you. I _should_ knight you. Boys have earned their spurs for less.”

“I am sure they have, Your Grace.”

“We have both been working towards this day for a long time. You aspiring for knighthood, and me to put an end to the Lannister threat.” _It was Joffrey that murdered my father. But he was killed by Stannis Baratheon._

“You railed forty thousand south, negotiated with my father, liberated Riverrun, set fire to the Westerlands…” Olyvar bit his lip.

“Broke faith with your father for the Tyrells. That’s the truth.” Olyar did not say anything. He turned to fetch a sheathed sword. “Was that right of me, Olyvar?”

“It is not of me to say, Your Grace.”

“I am asking of it. You remained at my side when most of your family left. And for good cause. I betrayed your trust.”

“Not my trust, Your Grace.” In Olyvar’s hands was a decanter. The cool wine was as a dark red. _As red as the blood that stains these fields._ “The marriage to Lady…to _Queen_ Margaery won you the war.”

“The war is not over,” Robb said. “It didn’t end with Tywin Lannister. It ends when Stannis Baratheon recognizes my crown.”

“Of course,” Olyvar said. “Forgive me, Your Grace.”

“Nothing was said that needs forgiveness. Olyvar.” Olyvar turned towards him. “You still haven’t answered my question. Did I do right?”

Olyvar considered that for a moment. “My lord father did not do right by you, Your Grace. He was sworn to serve your grandfather, and he held you at the Twins. That was not just, Your Grace.” _We both shamed each other, but a Stark should do better than that._ The Tyrells came to Mother on equal terms, while Walder Frey treated her like a fishwife. Other lords would not have faulted Robb for breaking his word to Walder Frey. A promise held at a ransom was hardly a promise at all. _So why can’t I stop feeling guilty over all this?_

His lords came in nearly all at once. Greatjon Umber towered over them all, his beard a wild display of black and gray across his face. Victory had done little to improve Rickard Karstark’s features, with a sharp nose and layers of dark circles beneath his eyes. Tytos Blackwood of Raventree Hall was well trimmed and respectable, and Robett Glover’s auburn hair flowed down his shoulder.

“Your Grace,” boomed the Greatjon, “it is good to see you awake.”

“It is good to _be_ awake,” smiled Robb. “Take a seat, all of you.” Robb gave a nod to Olyvar, who got to work filling the cups. “Let us set to task with the Lannisters.”

“What’s there to do?” Umber shrugged. “We stuffed up the Lannisters real good. I say we pack up and go home.”

Lord Blackwood sipped from his cup.  “Tywin Lannister is dead, Your Grace. And Lord Stannis has taken King’s Landing. The war is won.”

“This war won’t be won for years and years.” He said that in the voice of the King in the North, a voice that brokered no arguments. “The battles with the Lannisters are done, but there is still much to do. King Stannis is not done with us, if my Lady Mother is to be believed.”

“I heard he has a witch with him,” said Lord Robett. “A sorceress from the east, who bathes in flame and the souls of sacrifices.”

“Rubbish,” the Greatjon murmured as he drank from the wine.

“I do not know what she bathes in,” said Loras Tyrell, “but this Melissandre is a sorceress. She killed Renly.”

Lord Umber frowned. “You saw her do this?”

“My Lady Mother did,” Robb said. “Do you doubt her testimony?”

“No, Your Grace, never. Cat’s word is as good as gold.”

“Good,” Robb nodded. “So we can agree that Stannis at the very least has a queer advisor with him. That means we can’t know how he will react.”

“With the gritting of teeth, if I remember right.” There were some chuckles at Loras’ jape.

“I imagine a great deal more than that,” cautioned Lord Glover. “Stannis Baratheon held Storm’s End for a year, and took Dragonstone with your Lord Father shortly after. His use of the royal navy won the siege of Pyke just as much as King Robert’s hammer. This new Southron King must not be underestimated, My Lords.”

“Nor shall he,” Robb promised. “I imagine Dorne has learned the news that they have become an independent kingdom again.”

Umber furrowed his brows. “How’s that? None of them raised their spears!”

“You think Stannis can hold his kingdom together?” Rickard Karstark’s bushy brows narrowed. “The Reach is right in the middle between the Westerlands and Dorne. If he wants to display his kingly authority, he will need to march right through Highgarden.”

“No chance of that,” promised Ser Loras.

“Agreed,” Robb said. “Baratheon is at a disadvantage, but I will not underestimate him. Lord Tywin did, and it cost him King’s Landing.” _As well as nearly all of his kin._ “I plan on making peace with the new kingdom of Dorne.”

“Never trust a Dornishman,” Loras said.

 _And that is why you will not be going south. Or any man of the Reach for that matter._ “I don’t need their trust. I need an agreement.”

Tytos Blackwood peered forward. “On what, Your Grace?”

“To always keep Stannis Baratheon on his toes. The Red Mountains stretch right into the Stormlands. Stannis can’t think of doing anything if he has to worry about Dornish spears prickling him.”

Lord Glover nodded. “He will be trapped. The Riverlands to the north, the Reach to the west, Dorne to the south…”

 Loras smiled. “Stannis’ kingdom has shrunk, while ours has grown. The North, the Reach and the Riverlands; all are sworn to the house of Stark.”

The Greatjon slammed a fist into the table. “THE KING IN THE NORTH!” Olyvar winced at that. Robb had to hold back a chuckle.

“Whomever you send,” said Lord Glover, “ensure that you send the skull of the Mountain along with them. Knowing that the King in the North was the one to bring justice for Lady Elia and her children will help the negotiations a great deal.”

The Greatjon became surprisingly somber. “It should not have taken twenty years. King Robert should have brought Tywin Lannister to task for it.”

“He should have,” Lord Karstark rasped, “but he didn’t. But our king has. He knows the value of justice. He would never allow a crime to go unpunished.”

Robb narrowed his gaze. “Karstark, if you have a point, make it clear.”

“I want Jamie Lannister to taste my steel. He murdered my boys.”

“I would remind you, Lord Karstark, that Jamie Lannister is my uncle’s prisoner.”

“And I would remind _you_ ,” he breathed, “that you are your uncle’s king.”

Greatjon Umber rose from his chair. “You presume too far, Karstark!”

“Not near far enough for my boys!”

“Umber!” Robb’s face was still and expressionless. _Just as when Father dealt with these men._ “Sit down. And Karstark, I would remind you to remember your place. Jaime Lannister is heir to Casterly Rock. I would have rather have him in my debts than giving his cousins reason to go against us.”

Karstark was aghast. “Against us? We surround the Westerlands! We have the Redwyne navy to strike from the seas, and all your banners to march on him from the east! The Lannisters can do _nothing_!”

“The Lannisters are known for their debts,” cautioned Lord Blackwood, “and how they always repay them. The kingdom is young. We cannot be putting ourselves at risk. If keeping Jaime Lannister alive gives us time to establish trade routes and fortify our borders, then you,” he said with a pointed finger, “are duty bound to the king to keep your pursuit of justice in check.”

Lord Rickard flared his nostrils, and his eyes grew fiery in a rage. “Duty bound? DUTY BOUND!” He rose from his seat and brought a gloved fist down onto the table. “My sons are _bones_ in the ground. All of your sons live, Riverlander! You will hold grandsons of your own someday, while my Torrhen and Eddard are gone from this world forever.”

“Lord Karstark.” Robb’s voice was the king’s voice, a tone that demanded all attention. “Sit down. Remember where you are.”

Karstark’s eyes were narrowed on the king. “My boys—"

“Fought and died on my behalf. I have not forgotten. I had thought to reward your house for your service to the realm.”

“Reward?” There was a chill in his voice. “You mean to reward my house?”

“I do,” said the king from his bed. “Harrion will be returned to you. I’ve had thought to summon him to Highgarden.”

“My heir to Highgarden? Just what do you intend?”

“To forge a chain that will solidify my kingdom.” Robb shifted in his bed, aiming to appear upright. His legs stifled at that. He had been still for too long, and his legs were protesting because of it. “My good-brother Willas will be tied to one of Walder Frey’s daughters, and I suppose my uncle Edmure shall have to as well. But the Reach must have links of blood and cloak as well.”

“A gift of blood to pay for the loss of my blood. Is that it?”

“A reward,” Robb insisted. “An honor.”

The lord of Karhold twisted his face into a scowl. “If you wish to honor, then permit me to tear Jamie Lannister’s head from his neck.”

“I cannot do that.”

“Then there is nothing you can do to honor me, Your Grace.” The title was uttered like a curse. “You could honor me with all the glittering treasures of Casterly Rock, and I would still say you fall short.” Lord Karstark left in a fury, his cloak whipping behind him as he pierced through the flaps of the tent.

The Greatjon roared after him, but Robb silenced him with a wave of his hand. “Let him fume, Lord Umber.”

“He insulted you, Your Grace!”

“I can handle insults. By the time we return to Highgarden, he shall cool.”

Tytos Blackwood was less convinced. “And if he hasn’t?”

“Then we shall deal with him then. The sight of Harrion should make reason more appealing.”

“That is days away,” said the Kingsguard. “An angry man can mistake folly for wisdom. Let me ensure more guards to protect you.”

Galbert Glover licked the wine from his lips. “Sound counsel, Ser Loras. Let me entrust a few of my men, Your Grace.”

“ _Your_ men?” The Greatjon let out a loud snort. “Nothing can match Umber steel. I have a few men in mind. You won’t even find a bit of pollen on your nose.”

“There is no need for any of that. Lord Rickard won’t –“

“Your Grace, if I may?” With a shrug, Robb allowed Lord Tytos to continue. “I need to side with Lord Glover and Umber on this. I have seen men – men of sound hearts and mind – do foolish and irreversible things when their angers are hot. And Lord Rickard has a righteous fury in him. Especially in your condition, enhancing your guard would be wise.”

“I am not crippled, Lord Blackwood.”

“Of course not, Your Grace, but you should not chance this. If you will not agree to an increase of guards are you, then at least place Lord Karstark under arrest. He _did_ insult your person.”

Galbert Glover nearly choked on his wine. “That would be a travesty!”

“Agreed,” Tytos Blackwood said with a nod, “which is why I insist that you have an increase of men around you. If not for fear of Karstark, then because of the Lannisters.”

 The Greatjon crooked his brows. “The Lannisters are broken.”

“Their armies and their spirits,” Lord Blackwood said, “but it takes only one blade to the heart to end the life of our king. One shadow in the dark.”

His lords had won the day. “Fine, fine. Lords Umber and Glover, if you have the men –“

“Of course, Your Grace,” Galbert Glover said with a nod.

“My men will ensure you won’t miss a wink of sleep,” boasted the Greatjon.

Robb sighed. “Sleep. I could do with that. Leave your king, My Lords. If I don’t get some rest, I will fear my maesters more than any assassin from the Lannisters.” Blackwood nodded, Loras gave a brief smile, and Umber and Glover ensured men would be at guard within the hour. Then they hurried out from the tent, the flaps whipping in the wind, and Robb was alone.

Sleep came to him after that, but not easily.

**THE HAND OF THE KING**

 

As he stood over the desk, his eyes glazing over the parchments written in letters he could not read or comprehend, Davos wondered if there ever was a Hand more unfit. “If it would counsel you, Lord Hand, Ser Ryam Redwyne was one of the most praised and valorous knights the Kingsguard had ever produced.” Maester Tormel was one of a dozen maesters the Citadel had sent to attend to and advise King Stannis until a Grandmaester could be decided upon. His Grace did not approve of having a dozen gray birds squawking at him, as he had put it behind gritted teeth. “He was also one of the worst Hands to ever be appointed to that office.”

Davos could feel the wind from Blackwater Bay slither into the room. It was the most familiar scent in all the world. The salt of the bay intertwined with the horrid stench from Flea Bottom. Bitter and morbid; those were the only words Davos could find to describe it. “If you meant to counsel me, Master, I do not think you are doing a good job of it.”

“I would like to think I am doing a capable job of it.” Maester Tormel laid the papers down on the desk with a steady hand. “Just as you will I’m sure, Lord Hand. It will be a gradual process, My Lord. In a year’s time, you will forget you were ever not the Hand to His Grace.”

Davos frowned at that. He knew a boot licker when he heard one, no matter how pretty the tongue. “Let us get to business, before His Grace summons me.” Davos lifted up a paper. It had the sigil of House Lannister stamped upon it. “What is this?”

Maester Tormel looked over the words. “Ah, a declaration from the castellan of Casterly Rock. Ser Devan Lannister.” The Maester cleared his tongue. “The lions do not recognize a stag for a king. Hrm, someone should inform the knight that it was His Grace that rules from the Iron Throne.”

Davos could see several other papers with stamped sigils littered across his desk. “Tell me, do these other letters all say the same?”

The Maester mad a hrm sound at that. “For the most part. His Grace was quite insistent that his proclamation as king go as…well, as you would expect, Lord Hand. His Majesty is a rather uncompromising man.”

 _Uncompromising, as strong as iron, and the rightful king._ “Regardless, he is our king. Can I assume all these letters are rejections of that claim?”

“Well,” Maester Tormel said as he sorted through the letters, “Stark refused, as could be expected, as did Tyrell and Greyjoy and—“

“Are there any here that have answered the call of serving His Grace?”

The Maester sucked on his lips. “House Florent.” Davos sighed as he leaned back in his chair. It was one of the most well cushioned chairs he had ever sat in, and not even that could keep his head from pounding like a barrel drum. He rubbed the side of his head, desperate for any sort of relief. “Curious.” Davos inched his eyes open, and saw Maester Tormel examining a letter.

“What is it?”

“A letter from Lord Beric Dondarrion. A letter swearing his service to the crown.”

Dondarrion. The name sounded familiar. He had heard it before, from one place or another. Davos could not place it where. “Where is House Dondarrion?”

“My Lord Hand, he would be a marcher lord. His family has served the Baratheons for many years.”

“And what was so curious about Lord Deric’s—“

“Beric.”

“Lord _Beric’s_ declaration?”

“That he did not do it in person. His Majesty had should have received such oaths from the lords of the Stormlands after the death of his brother.”

That was curious. Davos remembered how many of the lords had sworn their fealty to the King, and some had even taken up the red faith. “False lords and believers,” Stannis Baratheon had declared them behind gritted teeth. Davos could not recall if he had heard anyone mention Beric Dondarrion before. Well, if they did, it would not be in the presence of the onion knight.

Davos rose up from his seat, feeling aches in his knees as he did so. Not too long ago he was trapped on the rocks in the bay. The body had not adjusted to the comforts of King’s Landing. “I should see to the King. Before the meeting.”

The Maester smiled. “As it would please you, Lord Hand.”

 _Everything would please me, considering how often I heard that courtesy. Would you ask if taking a shit would please me?_ He made for the door, but turned. “Ah, were there any letters from Cape Wrath?” The Maester gave him a curious look. “My…lady wife, our family has been summoned. I had hoped—“

The Maester’s eyes brightened. “Ah yes! I heard something concerning that.” He quickly began to shuffle through the mess of papers. “I…apologies, My Lord, but I cannot find the letter. I had heard one of the other Maesters speak of it.”

Davos frowned. “You read a letter from my wife?”

His lips spread into a nervous smile. “My Lord, it is a Maester’s duty to read and consider all messages that arrive. With the exception of those sealed by wax and sigil, of course. Then we may only deliver it for your discretion. And considering especially how you are lacking in…”

 _I don’t know letters. No need for politeness, Maester._ “And I assume the letter from my wife was not sealed?” Maester Tormel gave a tiny shake of a nod. “Fine then. Do you know what it said?”

“She had received the summons, My Lord, and would gather your sons and attend to you in King’s Landing.”

 _Three boys are still left to me, and Marya._ “Thank you, Maester. I should see to the King.” He didn’t wait for the man to babble another word before Davos stepped out the door. If he cared to stare out the tall windows, he would be able to see King’s Landing stretch out beneath him. The streets are all looked like an absurd knot from so high up. When Davos was a boy, the Red Keep loomed over everything. You could see it from anywhere in the city. It was the tallest thing Davos had ever seen.

That had changed. The barrel drum towers of Storm’s End easily eclipsed anything attributed to the Red Keep. The massive trees of the Stormlands looked like tiny green plums from the top of the tallest tower. And Dragonstone was the smallest keep of them all. But it had a volume to it that Davos could never explain. That castle had a history, and Davos could feel it whenever he walked the black halls. He sometimes wondered if the dragonlords of old were watching him. At times, Davos could almost hear the stone dragons speak to him. “What are you doing here, spawn of Flea Bottom. They always spoke in the iron tones of the lords sworn to Dragonstone.

Davos had never felt right in the black halls of Dragonstone – how could the King ever imagine he would find his place in the Red Keep? _He has an iron will, my king. If he makes demands of me, I must do all I can to meet it. Logic and the laws of the world be damned._ The idea sounded absurd, but he had to do what he could. His king demanded it.

 _So much has changed. A year ago, Stannis Baratheon was the lord of Dragonstone. Now he was the King of the Seven Kingdom, Lady Selyse was the Queen and little Shireen has become the Princess of Dragonstone._ And Ser Davos was made lord, and Hand to the King that none imagined would ever grace the halls of the Red Keep ever again. _It almost seems like madness. Perhaps I have become mad, and this is all a fever dream. Am I stranded upon that rock even now?_

Crinkled leaves swept at his feet, the wind pulling them aside. He felt them tumble over his boots, scrape past his ankles and tumble away from him, just as much rolling as they did glide down the halls. _This is almost like a dream._ For a moment, Davos could hear nothing but the cool wind. The stink from Flea Bottom did not rise into his nostrils. He felt like all of a sudden. _I belong in the streets of Flea Bottom, not here._

Then the sound of footsteps. It was Maester Tormel. “Lord Hand!” His cheeks were red and flushed. Something was clenched in his hand. When he unraveled his fist, he revealed the mark of Davos’ office. The pin of the Hand of the King. “You forget this.”

He took it into his hand, feeling the groves of it in his fingers. He did not feel so light in that moment, and the badge felt all too real. “Thank you. Maester.” Tormel said something, bowed his head, and stepped away. Davos stared at the pin for a moment before he clasped it onto his chest. The King would not approve for his Hand to come without the mark.

His Grace was waiting for him in the Small Hall of the tower. The hall was built to bench two hundred, so that a Hand could host an audience of the court when he needed. But Stannis Baratheon, the First of His Name, made the hall almost large and immense. The golden curtains that hung from the walls seemed to pale against the crimson bricks. Davos could see Stannis turn his head towards him, beckoning him, silent.

As he made his way, the steps of the smuggler from Flea Bottom echoed down the small hall, which seemed all too sudden to be quite large.

Stannis Baratheon did not wear his crown. Davos would never forget the sight when he first held audience in the throne hall, the flaming antlers swiveling around his head.

The crown did not fit well, and the Iron Throne was not an easy seat. _That will change in the years._

“Seaworth.” His Grace’s words were softer when spoken for Davos, but even then they rang in iron tones. “I had a mind to speak with you, before we gather all the other mummers in my council.” He tapped at the table. “Sit, Lord Seaworth. We may be here for some time.”

“As His Grace desires.” He pulled the ironwood chair and took his place at the King’s side. “What would you have from me?”

“Words, for a start.” King Stannis narrowed in on the badge that Davos had pinned to his chest. “You will grow used to your seat, in time.”

“As you will your crown?”

The King’s eyes were blue, dark and still. “No. One never grows used to a crown, or the realm suffers. My brother saw fit to make his rule ritual and comfortable. Hunted when he desired, drank when he wished, whores whom he wanted. And in return, corruption seeped into the city. Tell me of the letters.”

Davos sucked in a breath. “I heard Maester Cressen tell something to me once. Dark wings, dark words. You will not like what you hear, King.”

“My liking has nothing to do with it.”

 _Very well._ “None have accepted you as their king, save for House Florent. The house of your wife has offered you that much at least. And there was a letter from Lord…” The name had already began to flee from his mind. “Edric Dorandion.”

“Beric Dondarrion.” The King gritted his teeth. “You should know the names of those that are loyal to me, Seaworth. What of him?”

Davos hesitated, for a moment. “He declares his loyalty to his king.”

Stannis Baratheon frowned at that. “He did not call when summoned. He was not there with Renly. Never mind that my brother only managed to gather half of the Stormland lords.” His fingers tapped along the wood of the table. “He fears for the boy.”

“Boy?”

“Edric Dayne. He should be a young man by now, more than a boy, not yet twenty years of age. The Martells had declared for the Lannisters, although they sent no troops to march against me. He fears for the life of his squire.”

There was more to it than whom the Martells of Sunspear declared for. The Stormlands and the Reach had dealt with Dornish incursions for…Davos could not imagine a date, but he knew it was for a very long time. Long before the Taragryens united the kingdoms, he knew that much. And even after Dorne truly became the seventh kingdom, none could truly say that the Dornish were trusted.

Bedric Dondarrion and his Donrish squire would be surrounded by Reachmen and Stormlanders, none of whom had much love for the Dornish, and many marcher lords that has more reason than most to see harm come to the last son of Dayne. “This is the kind of king they think I am,” the king said after a time. He rested his face against his fist. “Their precious Renly is dead, although they know I had nothing to do with it. I burnt the sept at Dragonstone, I keep in my company a red priestess from Asshai. My wife has taken on that faith. Do I look like Maegor the Cruel to them?”

“No,” Davos said quickly. “Maegor earned his name. He was never driven by duty. He is not you.”

“Duty. Is that what you would say of me? Many would call me ambitious, say that was why I followed the red shadow of Melisandre.” His blue eyes narrowed, and he no longer seemed to be looking at Davos. “It was duty that drove me. Who would want a crown upon their head? Who would ever wish to be king? The Stark boy has taken nearly half of the realm. When he is brought low, he may almost thank me for it. I had a duty to Shireen, to see her as princess, and to make my wife queen. That is the way of it, Davos. The elder comes before the younger brother, that is the law and ritual of the world. Ambition?” He shook his head. “That was the last thing to do with it.”

Robb Stark had wed Margaery Tyrell. Word had reached them just a few days after the last of the lion banners had been torn down from the city streets. Just shortly after His Grace had announced that the Sept of Baelor shall be transformed into a temple for all the gods. Davos know what that meant. “Your lords would advise you to make peace with Robb Stark.”

“Peace.” The King spoke the word like it was poison. “And what would my Hand advise me to do?”

Davos licked his lip. “Well peace does sound appealing. Would keep riots from tearing the streets apart. One less thing that the septons can use to fire up the masses. Your lords would no doubt suggest to betroth Princess Shireen to Bran Stark.”

The King flared his nostrils. “I won’t marry my daughter to the brother of a lord that has risen up against me. Even if the boy had just cause. What happened to Eddard Stark was no worse than what the Mad King did to his uncle and brother.”

“I would not advise that either, Your Grace. A step too far.”

“Good. Glad to know the King and his Hand can agree on one thing.”

  _Only one thing._ “We do need peace, Your Grace. Robb Stark has the almost half of the realm behind him. We may have the walls of King’s Landing, but he has the numbers. Robb can feast on the bounties of the Reach while we starve.”

Stannis Baratheon narrowed his eyes. “What are you trying to say, Seaworth, besides how much of an advantage Stark has on us?”

“Give him something that he does not have, but he desperately wants. Your promised Catelyn Stark to return her girls.”

“They are not here,” the King spoke with gritted teeth. “We found trace of them. Not even a lock of hair on their pillows.”

Davos nodded. “I know that, Your Grace. But Robb Stark does not.”

“I will not lie to him about his sisters.”

“But we can tell Robb Stark that we know they are somewhere within the city. Hidden away by Lannister loyalists. That probably is not too far from the truth. Tell have to be somewhere.”

“They could be dead. Cersei Lannister killed her own spawn. What would stop her from taking the lives of the Stark girls.”

“Not much,” Davos admitted, “but the city fell so quickly that mayhaps she did not have the time to do it. They have to be somewhere, Your Grace, but we need time to find them. You are a man of honor, Your Grace. You promised Catelyn Stark, but you need time to fulfill your promise. Robb Stark may even like the idea of not marching on the Crownlands.”

The King let out a disproving snort. “What makes you so sure of that?”

“I am no learned man, Your Grace. In your wisdom, you decided to make a man who knows not his letters as your Hand.” If the King was amused by that jest, he did not show it. “I do know a thing or two about maps, though. Being a forgiven smuggler has it’s uses. The North is being ravaged by Ironborne, and the Starks cannot let that go unchallenged. The Westerlands have not been contested with yet, and then there is Dorne to the south, whose loyalties is in question by just about everyone.

“Robb Stark has the biggest realm, and that realm is surrounded by enemies. Give him nothing, by promising you will fulfill your oath. The only thing you want from this bargain is the time to fulfill it. Time which we can spend on a solution to this problem, and perhaps even find a way to persuade Robb Stark to bend the knee. The Lannisters are dead; the threat to the North is dead. Perhaps that can be the avenue for peace. A reasonable man is a great deal easier to bargain with than anyone else.”

The King’s eyes were stone. “I am the rightful king to the realm. If Robb Stark wanted peace, he should take off his crown and swear his loyalties.”

“You are right, Your Grace. That is what he should do. _If_ he knew you. But the realm does _not_ know you. Robb Stark does not know you. Make him know you. Offer him his sisters, with nothing exchanged save for one less battlefield that he needs to fight on. The realm sees you as an ambitious tyrant. Prove them wrong, Your Grace.”

“That still leaves one question.” The King tapped his fingers across the woodwork of the table. The beats echoed down in the hall. The wind whipped at the curtains. “How shall we find the Stark girls?”

“I will find a way, Your Grace. Leave it to a smuggler to find two smuggled girls. If Arya and Sansa Stark can be found, I will find them.”

 

**THE DWARFED LION**

 

He dreamed of a cracked stone roof, and the sounds of the twisting sea, and a sky that had turned green. He remembered the rush, and the fear that seemed to consume him. _Kill! Kill!_ and all he could answer was, “I am doing my bloody best.” One arm was a sword, the other was an axe, and the blood and the gore and the screams were surrounding him. And the fire, as green as jade, that danced and rushed along the dark waters.

There was nothing but smoke in the air, a smoke so thick and gray that it rushed across the sky, and blackened everything beneath it. All he could see was the gray pillars, rising higher and higher, clawing and scraping at the air. It was everywhere; in the clouds, in the air, in his mouth, in his eyes. His lips were wet. He was crying. Why was he crying? A Lannister of the Rock sheds no tears. He could not let his Father see. Gods be good, his Father could not see him cry. He would suffer no clawless lions in his house. A lion is what he was, stunted and small, but a lion, that is what he must live as, and fight as, and roar as, and die as.

He must die a lion. Jaime and Cersei would say no good things of him if he died as anything but that.

But everything hurt. The aches rolled over him, and all he could feel was the misery. He could not roar, he could not even groan. He was laying in his own filth, in his own weakness, in his failures. Someone was cursing the gods, he could hear the blasphemies. But just as quick the heresies were drowned out by the drum that was beating away at the inside of his mind, and everything faded into darkness.

He was through the Mud Gate. Mud Gate, it should have been called the Blood Gate, because that is all there was. Blood and gore and the dead and the soon would-be. The walls were slipping a dark crimson, and the cries of steel were so piercing that he thought he would go deaf. That wouldn’t be so terrible, he thought, because then he wouldn’t need to hear how disappointed Father was in him.

But that would be nothing new. Not at all. After all, Father was always disappointed in him.

There was no color left in the world. Gray and grayer, that is what he saw. The stones were gray, the blood was gray, the steel was gray, but the sky was green, a sickening green that threatened to steal all hope and life from the world. It was his own creation. He was the father and the alchemists were the mother. Two conspirators joined together in twisted union. What a horrid child, the sickening flame was. No child should have parents so horrid.

He was surrounded by the silent sisters. There was no color to them, no expressions as they attended to the dead. The armor and clothes fell off the dead like summer snow. Like the rest of the world, all of the brightness had left from their clothes, fleeing, fleeing. He could only see the gray. _Is this what the Starks see? No wonder they are so humorless._ All of the armor was dented, cracked and ruined, and he saw a hundred emblems on them. The colors of friends and enemies, and all were dead at his command. _I unleashed the fires of war. I knew what that would bring. Why did I do it? Joffrey was a monster, I knew that as much as anyone. Do I love my sister? Was it from my father’s command?_

Words came out of his mouth, but they were not words. It was a chorus of grunts. He realized why, and it horrified him. He had no mouth, no lips to speak words; only flat and smooth flesh, as pale as the moon. He had words, but with no mouth he could not scream them out. But he wanted to scream, to yell, to _roar_ , but he couldn’t. It was impossible. It was not attainable.

It was hell. That was what he was in, he realized. It took the one thing that allowed him any power. It was his sword, his dagger to cut into the heart of the world. His tongue gave him power and worth – it was his sword, brilliant and glimmering, and it was taken from him.

He had no mouth, and he wanted to roar.

It was not safe here, not within the city. The Red Keep. That was safe, with its high walls.  He knew that, he knew that, so why wasn’t he running? _Run, you stunted fool, run, rush, charge for the gates, blitz, do anything but what you are doing now._  He had no mouth, he could not speak or roar, but he lived. As he rushed behind the bodies with no faces, he could feel the heart that was beating within him. He looked at the piles of corpses, and their hearts were still as stone, but his heart was red and fierce.

The streets…were they aflame? No, he realized, they were pristine. The alleyways were filled with the sound of the dying, but there was no flame. Except for him. He felt as if someone had lit pitch to him. Every muscle in him was one giant fire, crackling and smoldering. But he could smell no smoke, did not feel the pain of his flesh being consumed. How can a man feel fire and not be burnt? What kind of monster was he? _One with two eyes and stunted legs and twisted arms._

But then the streets were closing in, faster and tighter, and he wanted to scream. But then he remembered that flesh had stretched over his mouth, and as the darkness came over Tyrion Lannister, he could only gurgle.

And it was darkness that welcomed Tyrion when he awoke. He could see nothing, not at first, but with each echo of pain in his head the vision started to become clearer. He was surrounded by stone; walls of stone and a roof of stone. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the scurrying of rats, and the drip-drop of water.

Slowly, he made out the outlines of a bed. It had no bed posts, and no canopies to keep the sun out of his eyes. In fact, the window was so small that only slits of light could dance through. It was the silver light of the moon, so thin that Tyrion could see the dust racing across it. He tried to lift his head, but it felt as heavy as Casterly Rock. After three tries he gave up the effort, and allowed his head to sink into the pillow.

The pillow, for what it was worth, was as comfortable as rock. Tyrion wondered how on earth he would find it comfortable, as the darkness claimed him once again.

The next time he awoke, he was still clad in darkness. But he could feel his senses returning. Or, at least the pain wasn’t quite as crippling. His head still felt like half of the gold of the Rock was stuffed into it, but at least he could move it. Not lift it, Tyrion wouldn’t dream of it, but at least rock it side to side. And he could lazily survey the room.

No, not a room. A cell, but one wide enough to hold his bed. More of a mattress that was held up by a plank of wood than a bed, but more comfortable than a pile of hay. The hay would be honest though. Only prisoners got to sleep on hay, while everyone else had a nice bed with fluffed up pillows to rest their heads on. So what was Tyrion Lannister – prisoner or privileged guest?

Whatever he was, why was he here in the first place? _The battle. Did we win the battle?_ He remembered how the wildfire had ripped the ships apart. He remembered the screams as they rose into the air. The chain had cut off Stannis’ fleet, making escape impossible. For both invaders and defenders. Live or die, those were the only paths that Tyrion had paved.

 _Die. Dead. I should be dead._ His body ached enough for it. But he was alive, even though he could not lift a finger, and it hurt even to rock his head back and forth on the pillow. Well, the pillow _did_ feel like it was filled with sand, so that probably wasn’t helping things. Still, he ached. That was better than being dead, Tyrion had to admit. Even if he ached every second, he could still do things.

Namely sleep. The darkness came and went. Maesters he had never seen before would also come with the darkness, inspecting him like he was some pinned dragonfly. _Do I fascinate you? Here, cut open my chest. See that my heart beats just as well as yours. Would be a bloody mess, though. Bring rags._ But they did not open up his belly, did not even mutter a word to him.

 _We lost, the battle was lost._ The realization hit him, day by day. He remembered Mandon Moore. At times he could almost see the Kingsguard’s eyes, eyes that were as pale as ice. One moment, nothing, the next the man was there. Then his sword was bloody, and Tyrion remembered falling. _Mandon wanted me dead. Why turn on me? What did I ever do to him, save for a few japes?_ But then it hit him: Cersei.

Would Cersei truly send Mandon Moore after him in the heart of the battle? Of course she would. Why would Tyrion even ask that? His wits haven’t rotted that much. _Surprise, sweet sister. I still live, and Moore is dead._ He remembered that much. Podrick had gutted the Kingsguard with a spear to the back. When he got out of the cell, a knighthood was in order for Podrick Payne. 

_Can a dwarf even knight a squire? Only one way to find out._

But the battle…would Cersei place him in this prison if the battle was won? _She wanted to kill you. Of course she would._ But then why not _just_ kill him? He has been drifting in and out of sleep for gods knows how long. If Cersei was in a position to kill him, the deed would have been done and written off. The truth was, Cersei was in no position to kill him.

Why were maesters attending to him? Someone wanted him to be alive, to be certain. You didn’t wrap someone in linen if you wanted them to bleed to death. Father would not want to see Tyrion dead…or at least, not like this, not on the battlefield. But Father was nowhere close to King’s Landing. He was in the west, fighting the Young Wolf.

 _We lost_. The realization hit him like a slap. Stannis Baratheon was king, he had to be, that was the only thing that made sense. Except why would Stannis, who would grind his teeth at every moment he could, who may as well have had an iron rod for a cock for how often he used it, who had the temperament and joy of the Wall, want Tyrion Lannister alive? If he wanted an execution, Joffrey would be much better suited.

Maybe he already did. Was Joffrey dead? Tyrion couldn’t imagine he would weep much for his nephew. The boy had the blood of Lannister, but he was all monster. Jaime had never spoken of Aerys, but Tyrion had heard plenty enough on the Mad King. Joffrey had it in him to be Aerys come again, and Tyrion fought to make sure that he stayed on the Iron Throne.

He remembered the preacher on the street. _The Demon Monkey he called me._ Would the maesters in the Citadel be any kinder? He could not imagine that they would. What maester would want to say a kind word of a stunted lion?

The question of _why_ he was kept alive came to him, again and again. Every time a servant would silently feed him a spoonful of broth, the question would come. Whenever a maester came to dress his wounds, the question would come. At every morning as he rose and every evening as he allowed sleep to overwhelm him, the question came. _Why is Tyrion Lannister alive?_

When the answer came for him, it was at first in the form of murmurs. He could barely hear the voices, as muffled as they were. But the noise quickly began to take form and structure, and Tyrion understood.

“And you would speak with him?” asked the gruffled voice. He was not born from any luxury, Tyrion understood that much. “What use is the Imp to you?”

“He is the same as any other man.” That voice was another thing entire.  No child of Westeros, the words had a harsher ring of true. Harsh, and beautiful all at once. “A child of the Lord of Light. Have no fear, Seaworth.”

“I am not here because of fear.” Louder now. _Just outside my door._ “What do you want from Tyrion Lannister? You did not speak out for him.”

“Neither did I speak out against him, if you recall.” Tyrion could almost see the smirk on the woman’s lips. “Only words shall be shared with him. Nothing more. Open the door.” Tyrion heard the jingle of keys and the opened with a groaning of rusted hinges. Before him stood a woman who knew only red. A dress dyed in same colors of a fresh flame, a necklace that boasted a flaming emerald, and hair that was as bold and red as the sun rising over Casterly Rock. “The Lion of Lannister.” Behind her, Tyrion could see an older man that had the golden chains of the Hand hanging from his neck. _My chains not so long ago. Oddly enough, they looked better on me than they did on you._ But then the door was closed, and it was just Tyrion and this Red Woman.

He had long since torn the silk from his lips. The bandages were dampened with blood, he recalled. His jaw felt sore still, a thousand dull aches coursing through his face. “You seem to have mistaken me for my brother.” Tyrion tried to adjust himself in his bed, but the ache in his bones forced a groan from his gullet. It seemed an eternity since he spoke. Whenever he said a word, his jaw seemed to creak. “I don’t know how. He has a better smile than I. And he’s taller.” The woman ignored his japes. Her eyes were red too, Tyrion realized. “Who are you?” _I know who you are. You are Stannis’ sorceress._

“Melisandre.” The name almost seemed to dance in the air. “And just like you, I am a servant for the Lord of Light.”

Tyrion snorted then…but his nose flared against the silk that still covered most of his face. _Why have I not torn the rest off?_ “I did not know I have been one of his devoted.”

“The bay was still smoking when I arrived, son of Tywin. How many were lost to the fires?”

“I do not think I want to know.”

“Thousands,” she answered. “All felt the most pure of deaths. They felt the Lord’s light.”

He didn’t care to hear another word concerning her god. “What do you want, Melisandre of Asshai?”

“Word with you.”

“And what words would you have with a dwarf?”

“I see no dwarf,” she said, towering over him. “Why have you not taken off the silk?”

He oft wondered that himself. “Maybe because I am weary.” That was only the half of it.

“And are you asking me to lessen your burdens, Tyrion Lannister?”

“Maybe I just like the scratches of the silk on my features? Perhaps I am comfortable?”

“That I do not believe. And the Lord of Light does not allow lies in his presence.” Tyrion noticed there were shears in her hands. _Where did she get those?_ If there were any in the room, Tyrion may well have cut the mask of silk off himself. And perhaps sliced off his ear, with how clumsy his fingers have felt. “Stay still.”

Tyrion did as he was bid, although he had no real choice in the manner. If he moved, his bones would ache, and Tyrion would rather not go through that. He gave a stiff nod of approval, although he doubted that the Priestess needed his consent. Her fingers were steady and sure, he had to give her that. He could not say he event felt the shears cut through the layers of silk. When all the bandages were nothing but shredded piles on his chest, Tyrion breathed.

The first thought was that he did not realize how heavy the bandages were. He had grown used to the weight, for all those days and weeks. Weeks, had it truly been that long? He could not say for certain. Perhaps it was just a few days. Time loses meaning in the dungeons.

The second thought was that his nose stung. A hot hiss went up through his nostrils, and his tongue went stiff from the pain. _What was that?_ He had never felt something like that before. Not even with the worst of colds, the colds that would clog him up with thick mucus, would he feel a pain like that.

“A mirror,” he demanded.

“You do not hide from the truth, Tyrion Lannister.” She had turned for only half of a moment, and then Tyrion saw the mirror glass in her hands. “And neither do I.” She held it up to his face. Tyrion saw a monster. His eyes were black and gold, his hair white and yellow, and his nose was a ruin. It was almost cut off to the base. _My face is a skull with flesh and hair._

He remembered Mandon Moore, and the pain that seared through him. “What happened?”

“All is known is that you were found. There was no mistaking you, Tyrion Lannister, not with your squire defending your body.”

“Podrick?”

“He is alive and well, have no fear on his count. His uncle is dead, but as soon as his father swears fealty to His Grace, then Podrick will be free.”

 _Of course. A boy cannot be blamed for the sins of the father. He will be a prisoner._ “And what of my family?”

“You have already guessed of it.”

“I would hear of it.” He managed to raise a pointed finger, as shaky as it was. “From your lips. From you, Melisandre of Asshai.”

“Your nephews are dead.” Tyrion forced himself to worm up against the bedpost, forced his stunted legs to do what they were designed for. If he would hear this, he would do it facing Melisandre. “As is your sister.”

“Joffrey died in battle?”

“No,” she said plainly. “He was taken when the battle had reached the streets of the city. His execution was a few days past.”

Tyrion should not have been surprised. Joffrey had fled for the safety of the city walls. That’s why Tyrion was on the beach in the first place. He told the man that if a half man was willing to fight, what were they? “And Tommen? How did he—“

“By your sister’s hand. Poison.” _Sweet Tommen died sweetly._ The Priestess said nothing of how Cersei died. Tyrion could guess easily enough. He imagined her beautiful face gone pale. Somehow, the image never quite fit right in his mind. Cersei was always beautiful, always. There never was any other version of her. Even dead, Tyrion imagined she was an image to behold. Horrible and cruel, but a vision.

“I suppose I could hope for some good news?” Melisandre peered at him. “My father defeated Robb Stark in battle? Last we heard, he had crossed into the Westerlands to push the Young Wolf into the sea.”

“A parched desert would give you more hope than I.” Tyrion said nothing, but he kept his gaze on her. He would not cry. Lions do not weep. “Tywin Lannister was defeated in battle. The Young Wolf has cemented his reputation. And as far as we know, your brother lives.”

“As far as you know.” Tyrion smirked…and regretted it, as he felt a sting crinkle on his cheeks. “I thought you knew everything, Priestess?”

“I know what the Lord provides to me.”

_My family has fallen. For all your talks of how Lannisters do not act as fools…you have made one of yourself, haven’t you? Always speaking of the family name, always of the legacy. What is a wolf to a lion, you must have wondered? Well, the wolf beat the lion. As has the stag._

He felt something clutch at his throat. It wasn’t just the pain. It was the fear of what would come next. But it had to be asked. _If nothing else, I cannot be afraid._ “When is the day?” She said nothing. “Of my execution? Don’t tell me that His Grace means to keep me bedridden for all of my days.”

“That,” she said, “is up to you. You have a choice, Tyrion Lannister. You can choose death, a death that has no blessings from God. You will be torn by horse, your entrails food for birds. That is the punishment for treason, is it not?” It was Tyrion’s turn to say nothing. “The other choice would bring you far from here. A much colder place, but it will give you life. You will not feel the touch of the Lord, but you will serve the kingdom all the same.”

“The Wall,” Tyrion realized.

“The Wall,” echoed the Priestess. “As I said, you be without the light of the Lord. But you will live, Tyrion. It is a choice between life and death.”

“That is not a choice,” Tyrion said. “To choose to die or to live? What man would to die? And I am a man, Priestess. Say that much of me. I am a man, and I mean to live.”

“A man?” Melisandre shook her head. “I have seen your eyes in the dark. Two eyes, one green, the other black, blazing in the darkness. I see you among wolves and beasts, and you are roaring amongst them all. This will not be the last time I see your eyes. We will meet again.”

 

**THE GOLDEN LION**

 

When they came for him, he was dreaming of Cersei. It was all he could do in the darkness. Her green eyes were like a fire in his mind. At times he repeated her name, “Cersei, Cersei, Cersei,” to himself. Were those the only words that he had ever known? Perhaps they were. She had told him before that they were born together, and they would die together. Jaime had believed her. He had always believed her.

How could he not? It was Cersei that spoke those words. How could she say anything that wasn’t true? One soul in two bodies, that’s what they were. They even looked the same. As children, he would dress as Cersei and she as he, and not even Father could tell them apart. Was it any wonder that she drew him to her, that they created children together? When the gaoler would give him water, Jamie imagined tasting her instead.

Perhaps he should have known, when Edmure Tully stepped down beneath the damp halls of Riverrun. Of course the only cause Lord Floppyfish would have to share breath with him would be to say it all. And, of course, Jaime had to begin with a quip. “Is that you Lord Emure? My eyes are straining in the dark.”

The gaoler handed his Lord a torch, and the light showed the rare pride in his eyes. “I am no lord yet, Jaime Lannister.”

“Oh,” Jaime said with mock sympathy, “forgive me. I had thought your Lord Father had passed away. I have been in the dark for too long. Well it should be only so long, I imagine. One could almost hear his coughing from even here.”

“I would not be so quick to speak of the dead or the dying, Lannister. There was a great battle.”

“There should be. There are five kings.”

Edmure smiled then. If Jaime wasn’t behind bars, he would have ripped it off of his pink face. “A battle at King’s Landing. Stannis Baratheon came upon the capitol much faster than anyone anticipated. He had brought all of his forces upon the walls of King’s Landing. I heard the Imp played some devilish trick, from the fires of hell itself. Details are …sketchy, Kingslayer. But there are somethings that _are_ known. I am sorry to say that your family is done.”

His voice had become a soft thing then. “No.”

“Your sister is dead by her own hand. Was that preferable to whatever means awaited her? I suppose so. Oh, and so is your nephew king, Joffrey. Was he your son?” Disgust crept into the fish’s words. “I heard some things, Kingslayer. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. But the gods will remember. The Father never forgets a sin.”

The Father could go fuck himself. Jamie would remember Edmure Tully’s words for the rest of his life. _My family is dead._ He had not seen his brother since he ventured into the North. The Stark bitch had taken him prisoner, without cause. _I went to war for you brother, would have done it a thousand times._ But Cersei was dead, and Joffrey, and Tommen…even Father. How could Father be dead?

Time had no meaning before, but then it had lost all purpose. What did it matter that his legs were cramped, that he could feel bugs squirm through his beard, and his eyes were throbbing? Cersei swore that the two of them would never leave each other. He could see her proud smile, even in the dark. “This child,” she said with a hand on her swollen belly, “is all lion.” There was a strange sense of pride in Jaime when she told him. No stag would sit on the Iron Throne once the worms ate out Robert’s heart.

Gods take them all, Cersei was dead, and all the sons they had made together. Jaime had no love for Joffrey. What words would he have for the boy? It was Tyrion that had all the words. Give Jaime a sword and all the world would make sense. But what good was a sword with raising a prince? He had left the boy to Cersei.

A stag was on the Iron Throne. Not a lion, no son of Cersei, but the bloody brother of Robert Baratheon. _Stannis killed Tyrion_. Jaime paused at that. Tyrion always knew the right words to say. What words did he have for the headsman axe? Something funny and inspiring, no doubt. The rest of the world could say what they want, but Tyrion was a _Lannister_ and a Lannister would have bled Stannis for every inch he took.

 _Was my father dead? Truly?_ The idea seemed like a nightmare. This was Tywin Lannister they were speaking about, the man that brought the Targaryens low. Oh, Robert Baratheon could have roared on about his battles, but so long as King’s Landing was held the Targaryens ruled the Seven Kingdoms. And it was the swords of the Westerlands that made the Red Keep earn its name.

Elia, Aegon and Rhaenys flashed before him. Jaime shuddered. A lion was not supposed to shudder. “A Lannister does not show fear”, Father had said. But what should a lion do when it is alone. _You are all dead, Father. And the only reason I am alive is because I am trapped. Toothless lion, that’s what I am. What is a man without a sword in his hand?_

The things he would do for a sword. A knife, Seven Hells give him a pitchfork. Anything with an edge that can cut a man with. He never felt so alive than when he would hold a sword in hand. _Or when I would be inside of Cersei._ That’s a sword of a different sort. It was all the same in the end. A skilled hand was needed, and Jaime was…

 _Cersei is dead._ The thought consumed his thoughts. For an eternity he could dream of her touch, and for moments he could feel her again. Those flickers of time were some god’s prank; they came just as quickly as they arrived. _When I am dead, I will crawl from the hells and make your eyes water._ He didn’t know who he was cursing, but he knew it was a promise that he would keep.

“Let me wither,” he said to the darkness.

“I think not,” came the sweet voice of his sister. Jaime could not see her, but he _heard_ her. He knew that voice as sure as he knew his own flesh.

Her name choked up in his throat. “Cersei?” He felt his chains scratch against his skin. “Where are you?” The words were scratching inside of him, turning his voice into a raspy thing. “I cannot see you.” He used to see her golden hair in the shadows, but all he could see now was black, black, black.

There was a light, a flicker. “I am here. I have _always_ been here. Don’t you see? Can’t you?”

“No,” he admitted, his words a rasp, “it’s so dark in here.” He tried to squint his eyes. “Why can’t I see you?”

“I thought you a lion.” Orange and red danced across the walls. “I thought you were my brother.”

“I am your brother.” He coughed. “I love you.”

“Then prove it.”

Shadows danced across the wall. “Here he is!” said a man shrouded. Jaime knew not the voice, but the tone and speech was all Westerlander. One man become two, two became three, and soon there were four. There were swords in one hand, and torches in the other. The light was blinding. “Lord Jaime. Lord _Jaime_ ,” said one man urgently, as if repeating his name over and over again would do anything about the splitting headache.

“Stop blasting his name like that,” hissed the second.

The third said nothing at all. He was their eyes; he kept a vigilant watch on all possible avenues.

“Silence, all of you,” commanded the fourth. “M’lord, can you speak?”

His lungs were as dry as Dorne. “Who are you?”

“Culver, m’lord. We are Lord Marbrand’s men.”

Jaime knew the man. Addam Marbrand; they had been friends since he had served as a page at Casterly Rock. “Addam sent you?”

“Your Father, Lord Tywin sent Addam here with the goal of your liberation.”

He had not heard the sounds of battle. The swords of Marbrand alone could not take Riverrun. “There is a siege?”

The lock twisted and clanked, and the iron bars of his cage swung open in a moan. The man with the key and sword came in quickly and unlocked the iron bracers from his wrists. His flesh screamed in release. “My Lord, you must stand.” _Must he says. Commanded, am I?_ He must have become a whipped dog, because he did precisely as he was told. His knees felt weak under the weight of him, but with every step strength returned to him. “Quickly now. Halvert, the sword. Give it to Lord Jaime.”

He felt something strong and sure and good in his hands. Leather wrapped around a metal hilt, a pummel to balance the weight, a good cross guard. There was a sword in his hand, and Jaime had never known a sweeter touch. Could even Cersei’s love compare to it?

Jaime was led into the light. He could see them more clearly now; the man with the pox scars, the one with hair so light he was almost a Targaryen, the bald one with the bushy eyebrows, and the one that gave him the sword was the smallest and thinnest of them all. Down the hall Jaime saw the gaoler, but in all fairness he smelled the man before he saw him. The gaoler must have pissed himself when the sword was twisted into his gut.

Jaime took a step, and suddenly he felt as light as air. He found himself tumbling into the arms of the Targaryen impersonator. “Culver, we can’t do it like this. Lord Jaime can hardly stand.”

“We do what we must. M’lord,” Culver said, “you must stand. We can’t stand idle here. They’ll find us for sure.”

Jaime breathed. “They might already. How did you get in here?”

“He doesn’t know,” said Bushy Brows.

The survivor of the pox scratched at his honors. “Well, the tower was on the opposite side of here. He should have heard it, though.”

“Heard what?”

“You’ll know soon enough, m’lord.” Culver’s voice was slow and calm. It reminded him of Maester Pycelle when he wasn’t blubbering. _But Pycelle was always blubbering._ “If you want to sate your curiosity, you must move on your feet. Can you do that?”

Jaime pushed the man away and gave a stiff nod. “I will stand on my own feet.”

“Very good, m’lord.” The small man nodded at the others. “Halvert, Albrect, be the point of the spear. Mal, you’re with me and Lord Jaime.”

“Aye,” nodded the bald man.

The shadows of Addam Marbrand were silent. When their boots tapped along the ground, it was the quietest noise Jaime had ever heard. _Who taught you lot to walk, a bunch of mummers?_ It had to be some trick on the senses.

Halvert, the Targaryen-That-Could-Have-Been, notched his shortbow. Jaime had never seen a man put arrow to string as quickly.  He had to have some Stormlander in him. _Blood of the dragon, kin of Storms, son of the metal forgers. You have quite the ancestry, Halvert._ Albrect the Poxed tapped Halvert on the shoulder, and they led the group down the halls.

The dungeon reeked of death. They slipped past the corpses of guards. The Riverlanders had quick and clean deaths, Jaime saw. None of them had their guts pulled out, or their necks hacked to pieces. _The Mountain would have been bloody disappointed._ These swords of Addam, they were a cut above the normal man.

Halvert peered around the corner, and held up a hand. Silence gripped them. Then he motioned them to follow. Jaime could see light pour through the slits in the iron door. The Poxed put his weight against the door, and the metal heaved in response.

It was night, thank the Gods. But as Jaime squinted his eyes, and felt the pounding in his head reach a crescendo, he realized what the light was. A tower was on fire, the one on the far side of Riverrun. It was the biggest torch Jaime had ever seen in his life. He could hear the sundering of stone and the cracking wood beams. As far as distractions went, Jaime could hardly think of any better.

Culver gave him a respectful nudge. “Go, m’lord. We can’t delay.” Whipped dog that he was, Jaime obeyed. They were on opposite ends of the castle, but Jaime could have sworn that he felt the heat of the blaze. His four saviors were dressed in black and gray, while he was trailing behind in his frayed and torn rags.

Jaime did not see the battlements as he was dragged down into the cellars, but by the Seven he heard it. He was surrounded by the Tully soldiers. Jaime felt their silent glares. But now there was nothing. Did Edmure Tully drag every man he had to put out the flame? “Did you really think Edmure would summon everyone from this end of the castle?”

The thin man did not turn to face him. “Not everyone, m’lord. In truth, we expected a few to be left behind.” Halvert and Albrect peered around the corner of the wall and circled their fingers in the air. “Quickly, Lord Jaime.”

Jaime took two steps before he heard the crunching of boots. His heart beat against his chest, and he turned. Men in leather coats, with the jumping fish of Tully stitched over their breasts. Jaime didn’t need the light of the fire to see the wide eyes behind their helms. “Kingslayer!”

Jaime heard one of the shadows say something. An arm grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled. “Quickly!” Whether it was Bushy Brows or the leader, Jaime couldn’t say. He half ran, half tumbled past them into the embrace of Albrect’s heavy arms. Albrect tucked Jaime low and shouldered him away from Halvert, who loosed an arrow at the pursuers.

Before they turned the corner, Jaime saw Halvert swerve beneath a swing from one the armed cods. If the man had a longbow, he could have swung it like a club. But a shortbow was little more than a nuisance. “Halvert!” Pox Scarred Albrect hesitated in his steps.

“Forget him!” Culver commanded. He pulled Halvert by the collar. “We all knew what Lord Addam demanded from us.”

_That is the kind of death I want. Let me die on my feet. Edmure Tully will see the worth of a smile when I am done with him._

“Culver,” Jamie demanded, “where are we going?”

“It was to be for the river gates, but that is lost. We need to—“

From the steps more of the Tully men arrived. Halvert pushed Jaime into Culver. “Take him!” Bushy Brows tightened his hand into a grim grip. If there was any fear in him now, he didn’t show it. He leapt into them, sending his mace pounding into a shield. The trout with legs screamed as his arm shattered.

They stumbled, and ran, and Jaime was pulled. His saviors had no desire to treat him gently. Culver kept his face calm as water, but Jaime knew there was fear beating inside of him. It was the same fear that ruled over every man when he could taste death.

Jaime had tasted the same, when he first stood with the Sword of the Morning against the Kingswood Brotherhood. This was a different fight to be sure. Arthur Dayne was a Kingsguard, and one of the greatest swords in all of the Seven Kingdoms. Jaime wore the White as well, but after months to being chained, he was just a shadow. And the men to his left and right could hardly be comparable to the likes of Ser Arthur Dayne. But it was a few men against many, and it filled Jaime with a rush.

Except Jaime was standing his ground. He was _running_. Someone would say better to run to fight another day. Jaime would call that man craven, but he still ran from the sounds of clashing steel and men breathing their last.

“There!” Culver shouted.

All Jaime saw was an opening in the parapet wall. “Where?” The small man and the bald one shared a look. “No.”

“M’lord,” Culver said, “it’s jump or die.”

 _We’re likely to die anyway._ “I’d rather stand my ground. Standing is often better than swimming,”

“Living is better than being dead,” Bald Mal said.

“M’lord, there is no time.”

“I am not—“

Before he could saw a word, Culver and Mal picked up Jaime by his armpits and practically threw him onto the wall. Jaime hugged the stone with his hands. He felt the wind in his face, swaying his filthy hair all over the damn place. “Culver!” he raged. “I will kill you for this.”

“Very good m’lord, but you need to jump!” Culver and Mal turned, swords drawn at the approach of the Tully men. “We are doing our duty m’lord. You must do the same!”

“Duty? How does jumping from these walls have _anything_ to do with duty!”

“You must live, Lord Jaime! Live and fight for a better day!”

Jaime looked down below. He saw nothing but black trees and gray hills and a dark river that coursed along the castle. “Kingslayer!” someone called out. _None had ever called me Kingslayer when I was with my father’s men._ When he led half of Father’s forces against the Young Wolf, all that everyone named him was Lord Jaime.

 _I used to jump from the rocks into the seas beneath our home. Cersei and I._ Jaime climbed to his feet, his toes crunching into the stone. He swallowed a breath, uttered a curse, damned Edmure Tully to the hells, and jumped.

He fell into the darkness and the cold waters.

 

**THE FROZEN KRAKEN**

 

The journey to the Wall was hell. It was not the irons, although it clamped on his wrist; it was not the weather, although the winds had seemed to take an especially cold turn the day Rodrik Cassel dragged him out from the cells; it was not even because of his horse, although the saddle was a poor fit and Theon could feel the blisters ride up his thighs.

It was the look of Rodrik Cassel, whenever he would glance over his shoulder. It was the same look the knight would give him in the dining hall, in the yard, on the rides across the grass hills surrounding Winterfell. _You must enjoy this. Everything you thought of the Kraken’s son was true._ They would say that Theon Turncloak was deceived by two boys and a simpleton. Of all the places Theon wanted to look, the crypts in Winterfell were the last.

Theon always thought himself clever, but crippled Bran had managed to outwit him. He almost wanted to laugh, let out a loud howl of a chortle, laugh until his lungs broke. They would say that Theon Greyjoy had gone mad on his journey to the Wall. _I feel like I have gone mad. The entire world has gone mad._

Bran had made sure Theon did not go to the Wall alone. Cassel lead the march, with some loaned Cerwyn men to bolster the ranks. Cley Cerwyn was quite certain to ensure that the kraken freezes at the Wall, no matter what. Theon would sooner say to have his head cut off and be done with it, but the Northmen were insistent that he uphold his promise of taking the black.

He had plenty of time to consider the landscape of the North. The journey from Winterfell to the Gift would be a slow one. After his siege to retake Winterfell, it seemed Cassel was in rush to do much of anything. _Are you trying to draw this out, old man? Make me linger on and on about the freedom that I had thrown away, about how I betrayed Robb? Make it last. Let me savor the misty smell of the hills. I will savor it to the last drop._

Rodrik Cassel was nothing if not a creature of ritual. If they had to camp for the night, Theon would be tied to a tree while he and the others set up the tents and started the fires. But that was a rare enough occurrence. On most nights they were able to find a little cottage or a town. Ser Rodrik invoked his rights as a knight, and would find lodgings for the lot of them. Theon wondered how much the innkeepers would appreciate losing a few rooms just because he decided to turn his back on Robb.

The men would often give Theon stares, as they pounded the spikes into the earth. _You think I can help, tied like I am?_ Theon wouldn’t even offer if they had asked. He was the one being sworn to the Night’s Watch, to serve out his days on a frozen rock, watching by bit as his cock hairs grew icicles. They would go back to their pig eyed wives soon enough, could dip their cocks in the mangy cunts when they got cold.

 _The price of treason. Die or freeze._ Theon wondered on some nights how krakens fared when winter came. Not every well he imagined; they couldn’t tear vessels apart if the sea was turned to ice.

When they reached Laketown, a tiny hamlet that was known for nothing at all, Rodrik Cassel did not hesitate to mention who he was. He rode up to a man who was just pulling his boat into the pier, and told the man he needed to speak with the mayor. The fisher, who had the eyes like a fish, gobbled his head and muttered something along the lines of a “M’lord” and a “Right away”. _None of the men in Winterfell treated me with that respect, and they knew me._

They were made to wait outside longer than Theon would have liked. A rain was dropping on their heads, and like all Northern rains, it was cold and left Theon both wet and miserable. The storms of the Iron Islands would at least have a dampness to it, but when the North wanted your hair to be dripping like a sponge, you can expect to get a chill.

Finally the mayor arrived and ushered them into his inn. He had fat silvery lambchops riding down his face, but the rest of his chin was covered in bristles. _My balls are halfway to freezing over. I need a warm fire._ The mayor’s inn certainly did have a hall, but it was short and chilly, but thank the Drowned God there was a fire that crackled on the far side. A keg barrel was nestled against the wall, but the wood looked old and worn by Theon’s estimates, and he doubted the ale tasted well at all.

“A quick meal,” Ser Rodrik instructed them as they say. Well, they sat. He was pretty much pushed into the bench. “Some ale to warm our souls, then we rest. An early ride in the morning.”

The mayor-turned-innkeep smiled and nodded, as if everything the knight had just spouted was very pleasing to his ears. “Very good, My Lord. We do have some aurochs I could have butchered for you.”

Cassel licked his lips with longing. “Fresh auroch. That would do me well. Yes, that would do quite nicely.”

The major gave a glance at Theon. “And for…”

The knight considered that. “Him as well.” The innkeep gave a bouncy nod to Ser Rodrik before he gave Theon another disapproving glance. _Do my chains discomfort you? Imagine what it’s like wearing them._

It took them several drinks before the plate of meat arrives, red hot and simmering. The serving boy was about to give Theon a fork and a knife, well-worn but still suited for the task, but he hesitated. Cassel gave the boy an approving nod. “Do not make me regret that, Turncloak.”

Theon wanted to say something in return, but all he could think was to fill his cold stomach with something hot and roaring. The meat nearly melted into his mouth, and filled his stomach with fire. Cassel wanted a quick meal, but the innkeep was too generous by far, and it took them the better part of an hour to finish. Theon had been in his fair share of inns before, and none were as quiet at this one. Ser Rodrik’s company were only ones in it, save for the innkeep that was also a mayor.

There should be singers, and a wench with thick thighs for Theon to sink his fingers into. The thick smell of smokeweed should linger in the roof, and there should be so much conversation that Theon would not even be able to think. This silence was all wrong, and the sound of knives slicing through cuts of meat was not nearly enough.

This would be the last inn that Theon would ever be in, as a free man, as a man that had his own choices. _Fuck the North. Who would ever want to call this place home?_

The mead and the cut of auroch filled them well, and Theon had a good snicker as Rodrik Cassel and the Cerwyn men wobbled to their rooms. His joy was short lived, as Cassel had the tendency to pull on his chains far too hard with every other step. It was a challenge to keep himself from tumbling to the hard wood floor.

“In the bed,” the knight commanded. He gave Theon a sluggish push, and he half stumbled his way onto the bed. The straw mattress did little to soften his landing. Cassel didn’t give another word as he closed the door. The room was small, being little more than just a closet, with just enough space to squeeze in the embarrassing excuse of a bed.

Sleep did not come easily. The fetters that were clamped around his feet were the biggest culprit. Whenever Tyrion would turn and twist, the iron would scratch against his ankles. The wooden frame let out groans, and the chains clattered against his feet. As twisted of a song Theon had ever heard. When his eyes finally did become heavy, all Theon could hear was the sea.

The salt sprays washing up the side of the cogs, the distant cries of the gulls, the creaking of the wood, the shattering of jeweled chains pulled from neck. _Iron price_ rasped Father’s voice, _iron price, iron prince, iron price._ What is dead may never die, blood of salt and iron, the tenants of the god drowned. _Why_? He was named brother, hunted with him, counseled him, turned cloak on him. For the glory of the Drowned God. _Why?_ Dressed up like Ned Stark’s daughter. _Gold, gold, gold price._ The clanking of irons, the blood of the children, the wailing screams of the mother, _take the black, take the black._

A voice pulled him away from the dream. He saw the blade first, spread across Rodrik Cassel’s knee. A musky smell filled the air. Theon didn’t move, not that he could with the fetters locked around his ankles. There was something of a glazed look in the Northman’s eyes. _Has he been drinking?_ Theon could smell a hint of drink on the man’s breath.

“Why did you do it?” The knight’s fingers rested on blade and hilt. Theon wondered if he was still in a dream, but his heart never pounded so hard in any dream he had.

“What?”

Cassel narrowed his eyes. “Robb had always called you his brother. You weren’t; you stank of fish and salt, but Robb didn’t care. Were you the one that planted the plot into his head? Was Pyke your idea?”

The thought of saying something clever almost overruled his desire to preserve his life. It took only one look at the withdrawn sword to reconsider. “Robb sent _me_. He chose _me_. He trusted _me_.”

“And you turned cloak on him, though he named you brother.”

“My brothers,” Theon said under a hot breath, “were killed on Pyke.”

For a moment, Theon thought he had sealed his death. The knight stank of a drunken sweat, and his eyes had a fierce anger that Theon had never seen before. If the man swung his sword, Theon had no chance. His fetters would be the death of him – and even if he they weren’t, where would he hide? He had the looks and sounds of a son from Pyke. And by now the entire North knew that Theon Greyjoy broke faith with Robb Stark and took Winterfell for his own.

When Cassel rose up, Theon thought that he was done. But the knight sheathed his sword and left Theon in the darkness of the room.

Sleep did not come to him again. Between Father’s visage and the fear of a Northman stabbing him in the night, Theon preferred to stay awake. Drums were pounding away in his head when Cassel dragged him outside to where the horses were tethered. Each step was a might beat. _Da-dum-DOM-da-dum._

Theon was beginning to see a trickle of the Wall in the distance. A massive sheet of rock and ice, tearing up from the earth below. That sliver of shimmering blue clouded by the gray fog of the morning. _That is my fate. The home I will know for the rest of my life._ Asha was seeing the same fog, no doubt. She took Deepwood Motte, and Theon had no doubt the North had a reckoning for her. _She should have come. We could have held Winterfell together._

But Theon had lost Winterfell, gave in to the old maester’s insistence for him to take the Black. And Yasha…how long could she hold. “Do not die far from the sea,” she had told him. Well, he could do that much at the very least. There was Eastwatch-by-the-sea, and that coastal keep was even held by an Ironborne. Theon couldn’t remember the man’s name, but there was appeal.

Cassel gave him barely a glance as they traveled up the old road. By the time the midday sun had crested over the thick woods, they had reached the New Gift. Everyone knew the tale of how Jaehaerys’ wife had granted this stretch of land to the Night’s Watch. Not like they did anything with it. Ruins of half held mills and holdfasts littered the countryside. They rode past tiny specks of towns, and the fields looked small and pitiful. Even by Northern standards, the New Gift looked withered and weak.

The New Gift was quiet. The entire journey was wrapped in a silence that seeped into Theon’s bones. The Cerwyn men said as little as necessary, and Rodrik Cassel hated speaking to Theon as much as Theon wanted to exchange words with the rotted knight. Every once in a while, Theon would hear something scurry from the hills that rose up over the road…but those moments were rare. When they would trot past the scant villages that dotted the New Gift, Theon would see the villagers look at them with those sunken eyes of theirs. _It is no surprise. They must think travelers are a cause for celebration. Who else would come for this frozen and sunken heap?_

That night they camped on the road. The rain was drained the night before, leaving the path caked in a layer of mud that was half way to frozen. Cassel ordered the one Cerwyn man with a bow to hunt some squirrels. It didn’t take the man long to return with four thin examples of meat, which Theon was thankful for. The tree they strapped him to was peeling its bark, and the rooted skin was rubbing into his ass.

The squirrels were gutted into the stew, and the black bread and beans warmed Theon up. He needed it, after the cold glares Cassel gave him. The man was silent, but his eyes could cut through the bedrock of Winterfell’s walls.

 _I should be a dead man._ Rodrik Cassel had every reason to put Theon’s life to a blood end. He was an Iron Islander, the bane of every son of the North, and he had turned his back on Robb. Would any of Cerwyn’s swords blink if Cassel separated Theon’s head from his neck? He suspected not. If Cassel had left his room with a bloody sword, he would be a day’s ride closer to Winterfell by now. “Theon was murdered in the night,” he would say to the crippled prince, “and we could not find his murderer.” The North would say that they were well rid of him.

And yet, Cassel gave Theon the chance to talk. Not that he found any satisfaction in the words. Rodrik Cassel was a maddening piece of shit, and Theon was almost looking excited to the day he would arrive at the Wall, just so they would be rid of each other.

 _It won’t be long now._ He peered over the small trail of steam that grew from his bowl, and he gazes towards the leaves. If it was winter, the limbs would be fingerless, and the Wall would be clear for him to see. Not too far from their camp would be the frozen rock that Theon would call him for the rest of his life.

Theon felt a chill run though him. He took another spoonful of the hot soup, and found it lacking. _Winter is coming._ The Starks were always right, one way or another.

 

**THE BROKEN WOLF**

 

Maester Luwin was looking at Bran with disapproval. “That was a great risk, Bran. You should not have asked for Hodor.” As the Maester spoke, Bran felt the grooves in the white bark. “He was cramped in the crypts for…how long were you in there?”

“Meera says we were in there for several weeks.” That’s what Meera said, but Bran wondered if that was the truth. They had been in the dark for days and days, until they were found. Until then, Bran only saw the light when he dreamed. When he saw as Summer did, who would prowl the fields of Winterfell besides Shaggydog. But they had been in the crypts for a long time, Bran knew that much.

It was Meera who came up with that plan, to turn around after the Mill and slip back into the tunnels. But if they had known what would have happened…if Bran was smarter, he would have known. A lord has to foresee all, even the unthinkable. _Theon killed those Miller’s boys, not me. It was his hand that killed them and pitched their corpses, not I._ Bran knew that was true – everyone was saying as such, Maester Luwin especially – but Bran couldn’t help but feel guilty.

Sometimes when he dreamed, he saw the little boys’ faces. Their small eyes would be gleaming in the darkness, and Bran could have sworn they were blue. But that was nonsense, even for a dream.

Other times he dreamed that he was on the Wall, standing on his own feet, the great whiteness of the land beyond stretching before him. But the land was rising taller and taller, until Bran realized the land was getting bigger, the Wall was getting _smaller._ The Wall was melting and breaking and then Bran fell. Bran remembered how he wanted to flap his wings. The Three-Eyed Raven promised that he would fly, but Bran would only crash into the earth.

“Hodor should be resting his bones Bran, and so should you. No man was made to be kept in the crypts. That is for the dead.”

“I know,” Bran said without listening. He could feel the wind pull at his hair, and the red leaves were swaying.

“You should be in bed, not here. You were on the run for days, and stuck in the crypts for the gods know how long.”

“I know.”

“Bran,” the Maester said in an unsatisfied tone, “why did you want to come here?”

Then all of a sudden, Hodor was giggling with joy as he chased some butterfly around the lake. “I didn’t want to stay crept in my bed, Maester. I needed to—“ _Move. But I can’t. I can never move ever again._ It used to be that the godswood was the only place where Winterfell was truly quiet, but that had changed after Theon. It had been a week since Ser Rodrik took Theon in chains and fetters to be brought to the Wall. Maester Luwin said that he managed to convince him to take the black.  Big Walder was sent back to the Twins, but Little Walder would be kept as prisoner for having joined in Theon’s hunt.

Brand didn’t mind that too much. Big Walder was a shit, and Little Walder did nothing to protect his liege lord. _Let him run back to the Twins._ Word had reached them that Robb had married Margaery Tyrell, and with the power of the Reach had crushed Tywin Lannister.

“Does that mean Robb and Mother will be coming home?” Rickon had asked. But Maester Luwin said there was still much work to be done before the King could return to Winterfell. That had put Rickon into a fury, and Bran hadn’t seen his brother since. He was somewhere in the crypts, Bran knew, just as before Theon came.

“Bran.” He felt Maester Luwin’s gentle touch on his shoulder. “The war is almost won, but until Robb returns you are the Stark in Winterfell.”

“I know that,” Bran said. He knew that long before Theon stole Winterfell, when he was the lord that heard Robb’s bannermen. “You were with me when I held court in the Great Hall.”

“I remember that. I only wish for you to do so. If you are going to be out of bed, a bed which I still insist for you to be in, then at least be seen by the people. You are not doing any good here in the godswood.”

 _But I like it here_ he wanted to say. It reminded him of Father, who would often come into the godswood to think and prayer on what he needed to do. Bran had never seen Robb here. Bran had barely seen Robb act as lord; he had a crown on his head for much longer than lord. But Father had been the Lord of Winterfell for years and years. _If I should be lord, I should be like my father._

Why should he leave the godswood? Few of the nobles had lingered after the Harvest Feast. Lord Manderly had returned to White Harbor, Mors and Hother Umber to Last Hearth, the stewards of Deepwood Motte went back to the Glover seat. Lady Donella Hornwood was murdered by Ramsay Snow. _She ate her own fingers after the bastard of Roose Bolton trapped her in a tower._

Cley Cerwyn, heir to Castle Cerwyn, had remained. “I will see that Winterfell is well defended,” he had announced. “My Lord, none shall dare threaten your family’s seat again. Not until your brother the king has returned will my men retire. I swear it.” Men who bore the gray axes of Cerwyn were commonplace in both Winterfell and Winter’s Town.

“It is good of Lord Cley to be so devour to you,” Maester Luwin had said privately some time later. “But with the death of his father, he is the Lord of Castle Cerwyn now. I hear his sister Jonelle is a capable castellan. But Lord Cley’s place is back at his seat, not at Winterfell.”

Lord Cley had never thought less of Bran because of…his legs. “Lord Cley’s place is where he decides it is, Maester. The people are better for his presence.”

“The people, Bran?” Maester Luwin wasn’t having any of it. “Or for you?”

“For both,” he insisted. “Theon just took Winterfell without any resistance.”

“And lost it just as easily, Bran. You do not need the Cerwyn swords, but what do you think Cley’s people are thinking of their liege lord being so far from his seat?”

Bran could hear Hodor’s cries of “Hodor!” somewhere in the godswood. “Maybe they are glad that Lord Cerwyn is protecting Winterfell, just as my brother is protecting all of the North.”

“And all of the Riverlands and all of the Reach. I hope Lord Mace is not disappointed that you will not be able to come to Highgarden.”

Bran tapped his fingers on the massive roots of the weirwood tree. They were big enough for him to climb on. If his legs weren’t broken. “I still don’t know why Robb is going to Highgarden. He defeated Lord Tywin. He should go home.”

“What King Robb needs to do is pay tribute to the Reach lords that paid such a crucial part of his victory. If dining at Highgarden and meeting his wife’s family does that, then that is what he needs to do. Robb is king, Bran. If a lord has to put others before himself, a king is a thousand times that.”

“I know that,” Bran said.

“You say that, and yet you ask questions. There is nothing wrong with learning, Bran.”

That sounded like something Jojen Reed would say. He was not much older than Bran, at four and ten, but he had a way of speaking that made him sound much older and wiser. Old Nan had taken to calling him “Little Grandfather”. Bran wished that “Little Grandfather” would get to the point sometimes. If Jojen did one thing well, it was saying a hundred words when ten would suffice. But, Jojen was the only one that took his dreams seriously.

“Where is Jojen Reed? And Meera?”

“Well,” said Maester Luwin, “I suppose they would be somewhere in the keep.”

“Why have they not seen me?” _Jojen said he would help me with my dreams._ “Not since we were found in the crypts.”

 “Perhaps because Jojen thought you should be getting your rest. As do I.”

 _Jojen wants me dreaming. He wants me to learn how to slip into Summer. I want to slip into Summer whenever I want. It was easier when we were running away from Theon. Everytime I slept out in the woods, I dreamt that I was a wolf._ But in Winterfell, all he could dream of were the miller’s boys that Theon had murdered.

“I should go to him.”

“To Jojen Reed?”

“No,” Bran said. He would ask of Bran’s dreams, and Bran would have nothing to say. “I should speak with Lord Cerwyn. It is as you said, Maester. I should be seen. Can you fetch Hodor?”

Hodor was fetched, although it took some time for the basket to be laced over his back, and for Bran to be fitted into it. “Where will we find Lord Cerwyn?” Bran asked as he was lifted into the basket.

“Somewhere within Winterfell,” he said as he watched, “to be sure. I could have him summoned. Lord Cerwyn, if nothing else, is eager to please.”

“No,” Bran said. “We will go to him. I want him to be seen.” _Winterfell was broken, and so am I, but we both live. Others need to know that as well._ “Do you think he could be drilling the guard?” Lord Cley had taken to acting as Master-at-Arms of Winterfell while Ser Rodrik was away.

“I could see that.”

“Then we could try there. Go on Hodor,” he said with a pat on the stableboy’s shoulder.

“Hodor,” Hodor said, with a bobbing of his head.

Bran was not wrong. One would have thought that Cley Cerwyn was at home when he was commanding. Lord Cerwyn was nearly twenty years of age, and he looked every part the master of his keep. His was broad shouldered, and his dark hair was cut short. But his face had a hard cut to it, and his brown eyes had a confident blaze to it. He was drilling procedures into the men when Hodor approached.

“Hail, my Prince of Winterfell!” He gave a curt bow of his head. “Ser Rodrik is to be commended. I hardly think these men have had a lax moment in all their days.”

“Then what value in training them?” Bran asked.

“A sharp sword will not remain so without a whetstone, My Lord. You look well.”

“He should be in bed,” Maester Luwin added from behind, “but the Prince insisted on being out. He wished to see you.”

“If you have demands, My Prince, give them and I will see that they are done. If you have questions, ask, and I will answer.”

If those words came from any other man, Bran would have thought they were mocking him. But Bran knew that Cley Cerwyn was sincere. “Should any mock your condition, My Prince, they will sport a red smile when I am done with them.”  He had made that promise during the heat of the Harvest Festival, and Bran did not have cause to doubt him. Lord Cley was always kind to Bran and his brother.

“I wanted to see the men,” Bran said.

Lord Cley narrowed his eyes. “You want them to see you, you mean.” Bran must have had a shocked look on his face, for Cley’s broke out into a smile. “Forgive me, My Lord, but you are too easy to read. You have much to learn before you possess the iron face of a lord of Winterfell.”

“I have much to learn,” Bran said.

“Now those are wise words of a Prince,” Maester Luwin said. “The day a man insists that he has nothing to learn is the day that he is dead.”

“Did you advise Theon Turncloak of that as well, Maester?” Cley’s words came out too hot for Bran’s liking.

“A Maester advises the master of the castle and keep he is stationed to. And I advised Theon Greyjoy to take the black. Which he did. And because of that, no more lives were lost than needed.”

Cley Cerwyn chewed on that for a bit, Bran saw. “My Prince,” he finally said, “this is actually somewhat convenient.”

“And how is that?” the Maester asked, with more than a shade of doubt.

“I was hoping to ask you about Theon Turncloak, and this Reek of his. Something about this did not fit right with me. Perhaps if we spoke elsewhere.”

“No,” Bran said. _I came here to be seen. I don’t want to be hidden again._ “If you have concerns, I would hear them now. My Lord Father once told my brother that not all secrets should be kept to the shadows.”

“Not all,” cautioned Maester Luwin, “but some should. If Lord Cley feels another location is advised, I believe it would be wise to consider him.”

Bran wanted to refuse them both, to demand that Cley Cerwyn lay his feelings out in the open. _But if I appear stubborn and foolish, would Lord Cley every trust to counsel me again?_ A man must choose his battles, Father had told him. He agreed, and Maester said they should speak in the privacy of Bran’s chambers. Lord Cley barked some orders for the men to continue their drills. He followed Hodor, and Bran in the basket, back to Bran’s chambers. _The last place I want to be._

When Hodor had gently laid Bran at the end of the bed, and after Bran had cushioned the pillows so that he could keep his head for as tall as he could, Bran Stark have Cley Cerwyn permission to speak. “Maester Luwin,” he said, “you told me that Theon Greyjoy had sent off this Reek to collect men from the Dreadfort.”

“That is the truth as far as I know it.” Maester Luwin shuffled uncomfortably. “There is too much about that man that I do not know.”

“And that is what concerns me. Who was this Reek?”

“Some servant of Ramsay Bolton,” Bran said. “That’s what Ser Rodrik told us.” But just speaking the words made Bran doubt himself.

“And how would a servant secure men from the Boltons?”

Maester Luwin shrugged. “Who is to say that he did?”

“My scouts,” Lord Cerwyn said. “I rode with all speed to save you, My Lord, but this was still war. And war demands precautions. My scouts found a legion of Bolton men just ahead of us. I managed to beat them to Winterfell.”

“And with the men of the other houses, drove out the Ironborn from the keep,” Maester Luwin said. “But if you didn’t manage to arrive before the Dreadfort swords…”

“I’d rather not think on that,” Cley Cerwyn said. Bran could almost hear a shudder in his strong voice. “The battle was won, Theon was thrown into shackles, the Princes rescued, and King Robb’s position secured. That should be the end of it.”

“Hodor,” Hodor said with a tremble.

“Calm down Hodor,” Bran said with a pat on the tall man’s arm. “Lord Cley, you don’t think that was Reek that Theon Greyjoy sent back to the Dreadfort.”

“No, I do not. I think that was Ramsay Snow.”

“No.” The Maester shook his head. “Ser Rodrik is a loyal Stark man, and true. He would not betray us to the Boltons.”

“I would _never_ doubt the words of Ser Rodrik. But who here knows what Ramsay Snow looks like? His face, his smile, the way he talks and how he breathes? Did Reek actually have a stench to him?”

Bran could not say that he did. “Lord Roose is with my brother.” Bran felt his stomach coil into a tight knot.

“He is south of Moat Cailin, yes,” Maester Luwin said with a reassuring hand, “but not with the king. Last we heard, he was with your uncle, Lord Edmure at Riverrun.”

“But the son could be conspiring with the father!” Bran said. It was more anxious than how he wanted, but he couldn’t help it. _Father died because he trusted the King._

“Not likely,” Lord Cerwyn said. “Roose Bolton is out on the field. But his bastard is at the Dreadfort, and Lord Roose surely has a maester who has trained ravens the route to that place.”

“Assuming this is all true,” Maester Luwin doubted, “why? Committing treason against your king with little hope of victory? Everything Ramsay Snow did, assuming it _was_ the Bolton bastard that was Reek, all hinged on us not knowing it was him.”

“Because he is a Bolton,” Bran said in a hard voice. “They were our enemies from the beginning. The first Kings of Winter fought against the Red Kings.”

“My Prince,” Maester Luwin said in his wizened voice, “I lectured on how little you should rely on those ancient histories. They are almost legends in and of themselves. They cannot be relied upon for accuracy.”

“Legends or no,” said Lord Cley, “I trust any son of the Dreadfort as far as I can toss their keep. I have heard enough stories about Lord Roose’s firstborn son Domeric to keep me awake at night.”

“About what he did?” asked Bran.

“About how he died,” he answered. “Only when he fetched his bastard brother did he perish from an illness to the stomach.”

 _Was this Ramsay Snow a kinslayer?_ “We don’t know enough. I can’t just write to Robb and tell him to imprison Lord Roose.”

“Of course you can,” Lord Cley said. “Robb is king, and we know that at the very least Ramsay’s servant was involved.”

“No,” Luwin said, “the Prince is right. We know nothing. And a king cannot act without authority. That was the death of Lord Eddard. But we also cannot wait here and do nothing.”

“Nor do I intend to. Maester, we will give the Dreadfort no option. We know what this Reek looks like. Command them to produce this Reek. If they produce someone that we know is false, then we are certain that Ramsay Snow is somewhere within the Dreadfort. If they say that Reek is dead…well, then they will know that _we_ know. What keeps surround the Dreadfort?”

Bran half expected a lecture from the Maester, on how he should know the answer to that question. And he should, but the names were escaping him. “The Karstarks of Karhold, and the Umbers of Last Hearth.”

“Then send word to them. Not on a raven.” _Ravens can be shot down._ “Do we have riders that we trust?”

“I have men,” Lord Cley declared.

“Then send message to the Karstarks and Umbers. Have them watch the Dreadfort.”

Bran saw a curl of a smile on Cley Cerwyn’s face. “And should they find anything?”

He thought on that. “I will do as my father would, as Robb would. He entrusted the North to me.” _To a broken boy, a half man that cannot even walk._ “I won’t be known as the prince that lost the North.”


	17. The Price of Paraszys Sol Nierhols

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya travels through the mountains. Paraszys Sol Nierhols gets his promised feast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A much overdue chapter. Should hopefully not happen ever again until the end of the arc. 
> 
> You can view this chapter on my site if you would like to listen to a custom soundtrack. http://wp.me/P7Obn3-4W

**XVI**

**THE PRICE OF PARASZYS SOL NIERHOLS**

**THE DRAGON’S SON**

 

The wreck lingered among the surface of the water. They were cracked and battered, thin wooden fingers stretched across the sea. The sailors had gathered the hooks and drew in wreckage, piece by piece, until they found the hull with the name of the vessel. TAERHYS SOTHJOR was etched into the wood. The years had faded the once brilliant gold paint into a pale yellow. The corpses of the crew lingered among the waves, pale and bloated. Aegon did not doubt that many more had been devoured by the beasts of the sea and ripped apart by gulls.

Among the crew of the _Bittersteel_ was a man who followed the Red Faith. He whispered some words, and Captain Nal Qarlor allowed a small fire to be lit, so the dead may find their way towards the Enkindled Halls. _Arya Stark did not follow the Red Faith. R’hllor is nothing to her. She prayed to the Old Gods. She worshiped a tree._ Aegon wondered what the Northmen would whisper at a funeral. Perhaps they said nothing at all. _Would the Old Gods approve of their worshipers drowning?_ Aegon imagined not.

“A storm,” Aegon had heard one of the sailors say. “It had to be a storm.” But when Aegon looked up into the sky, it was clear and gold. The sun had never looked brighter.

The day was long. The Golden Fleet lingered around the wreckage for hours, digging through the salvage. “I want all traces of the Stark girl,” Myles Toyne said to the Captain. “Only when all hope for her is lost will we sail on.”

When the midday sun rose high in the sky, they knew that Arya Stark was gone. Aegon didn’t want to think on how she could have met that end. Arya Stark’s eyes were gray and bold, her smile fierce. Jon Connington had cursed the girl when they discovered that she was gone, but Aegon thought she would have slipped through their fingers sooner, if he had to be honest with himself. _I should have said something. Perhaps had more guards posted on her cabin, kept a more vigilant eye on her. She’s a wolf; the Northmen are more wild than all the other kingdoms, everyone knows that. Halfmaester told me that often enough. Why didn’t I listen?_

As he watched the wreckage fade in the distance, Aegon remembered something he had read in a book. _A king must consider the words of his advisors, as well as the actions of his enemies._ Aegon should have known that Arya Stark would not lay patiently as the armada made its way towards Astapor. If there was a faster route, she would have leapt at it head first. _And she died because of it._

“It is no fault of your own,” Septa Lemore said to him as she leaned on the rails of the _Bittersteel._ He did not turn to look to her. “Arya Stark snuck away, she and her wolf.”

“A king should know better,” Aegon said. “She was distracted when she returned from the Captain-General’s summon. Something was on her mind. I pressed her, but she said nothing.”

Aegon could almost see the Septa cross her arms across her chest. “And whose fault was that? The girl said nothing to you, she acted on her own, and she died on her own. If you must blame someone, blame the crew of the _Taerhys Sothjor_. How can one girl hide on a cog? They should have recognized her. Blocks of wood for eyes, that’s what they had.”

He could not say she was wrong. How did Arya Stark evade the crew? Aegon supposed in the same manner that she slipped from the _Bittersteel._ Connington had not even realized Arya was gone until they had realized none had seen Nymeria all morning. Aegon was cooped up in his cabin with Haldon Halfmaester’s lessons, and Myles Toyne was deep in talks with Captain Nal for most of the day.

“Septa, where is Connington?” She said nothing. Aegon turned to face her. “Where is Jon Connington?”

“What makes you think I know?”

“Because you always know. Never a moment when any can slip from your sight. That wasn’t a skill you reserved just for me. So tell me, so I can speak with Jon.”

The Septa narrowed her eyes. “That will give you nothing but trouble. What’s done is done.”

“It matters not.”

Lemore sighed. “Very well then. He’s with the Captain, no doubt. _And_ the Captain-General, and all of that one’s captains. Lots of captains crammed into one room.”

Normally Aegon would have made a jest back at her, but he wasn’t in the mood. He pressed past her and made his way below the deck of the _Bittersteel._ It was a massive galley, two levels high. There were bigger ships in the fleet, but those were often reserved for transporting the elephants. Aegon had spent half of his life on one vessel or another, but he could never get used to the way they tilted on the seas. A ship was never straight; it was always uneven and shifted with the tides. Lamps swung from the ceiling, and casted the hall in a dull glow.

Aegon knew the captain’s quarter when he saw it. Four men of the Company stood at attention, golden bands shining around their arms. “Your Grace,” came the sly tone of a Summer Islander. “What do you need?”

“To enter. I would have words.”

Some of the men shared a glance. “The Captain-General said none were to enter.”

A guard with violet eyes hesitated. “But he said nothing about the King.”

That was enough for Aegon. “Then I will enter.” Before any of the guards could protest, Aegon pushed on the door. Light swarmed into the room through a window, and the walls were covered with wax candles. Myles Toyne stood at the head of the table, his fists planted into the wood. Jon Connington was seated to the left of him, and Aegon could see all the rest. Harry Strickland, Black Balaq who commanded the archers, Lysono Maar, the hulking Franklyn Flowers and the slim exiled knight Tristan Rivers. “Aegon,” Jon said, his blue eyes fixed. “What are you doing here?”

“Are you not having council?”

“Of course,” Myles Toyne said with a grating voice. “We were discussing our next course of action.”

From behind, Aegon heard the guards stammer. “Apologies, Captain-General! He just—”

“It’s fine,” said the Blackheart in an iron tone. “It is the King, not an assassin that waltzed right in. How fortunate.”

There was an empty chair, carved from a dark wood. “I shall take my place.” Aegon sat right between Lysono Maar and Captain Nal Qarlor, who shared a glance. “It was said that King Robert never sat on any of his Small Councils. Is that not true, Spymaster?”

Lysono smiled. “Of course, Your Grace. Save for one time, when he ordered the death of your aunt and Jon Snow.”

Aegon hardened his gaze. “I will not be like King Robert. You are fighting to place me on the Iron Throne. From now on, I shall be a part of the war councils. Even if it is only for me to just listen, you will have a seat saved for me.”

“Your Grace,” Harry Strickland said nervously, “this is—“

“It will be done,” Myles Toyne spoke in an iron tone. He looked to Jon. “What were you saying, before the King arrived?”

Jon gave Aegon a glance, but it was one he knew all too well. _We will talk later_. It would not be a talk Aegon would look forward too. “We must decide what must be done concerning Jon Snow. If anything at all.”

“Jon Snow is my aunt’s paramour,” Aegon said. All of the men of the company turned their gaze, looking upon him. Aegon felt a moment’s hesitation. “He is the father of her child.”

“If,” Connington said, “what we have heard are true. All we know for a certainty is that Khal Drogo married Daenerys, that Jon Snow pledged fealty to her, that she is pregnant, and that the Golden Horde marched upon Astapor.”

“And lost,” snickered Black Balaq.

“Why say anything?” Harry Strickland tried to sound confident. Tried and failed. “Who’s to say that she was even here? When they ask what happened to Arya Stark, we can ask in return ‘Arya who?’”

Lysono Maar scoffed at that. “Good plan, until Jon Snow discovers that we lied to his face.”

“You’re the spymaster,” Strickland said. “Is it not your responsibility to ensure nothing leaks out?”

“Not if the ship is full of holes, and that ship has keeled over from all the holes in the hull. Strickland, listen to your spymaster when he says that is a terrible plan.”

Jon Connington nodded. “Lysono has the right of it, Harry. Lies will get us nowhere. Stick to your numbers.”

“I will speak to Jon Snow,” Aegon said. All the eyes in the room turned on him. “I am the rightful king. Arya Stark was under the protection of the Golden Company, and you have risen your banners for me. It is my responsibility.”

“Aegon,” Jon began, “that is not—“

“It is true”, Aegon said. He made his voice hard, as he imagined Father’s would have been. “I didn’t push her away from us, but she was under our protection.” _The King’s protection._ “If Jon should hear it from anyone, it should be from me.”

The Paymaster frowned. “That could make it worse. We are trying to make Daenerys Targaryen _want_ to support you. Jon Snow, if everything we believe is true, is closer to her than we all have any hopes to be. If Daenerys does not take kindly to you, then Jon Snow is the key. And saying we have lost his sister may mean he is lost to us forever.”

Franklyn Flowers rested his face on his scarred fist. Every inch of the man was covered in scars. A slanted cross was etched across his face, and deep crevasses raced across his knuckles. “The boy may have the right idea.” His voice was a deep growl that rumbled as he spoke. “Everyone knows that the Northmen have a queer taste for honor. Jon Snow may like it better coming from His Grace than any other.”

“Or turn him against us,” caution Connington. “Arya crossed half the world to reach her brother. There must be a deep love between them.”

Harry Strickland licked his lips. “There is another option. Turn from Astapor. Westeros is split asunder in civil war. Why not take advantage? So what if Aegon is not wed to his aunt? Seat the boy on the Iron Throne. The girl has nothing to her but her name. She may even be dead.”

“No.” The Captain-General spoke in an iron tone. Henry Strickland’s slurped his mouth open, but Myles Toyne’s steel glare closed it just as quickly. “We have come halfway across the world for Daenerys Targaryen. The time for abandoning her is long past. If she is dead, then we shall take advantage and buy all the Unsullied from the Good Masters. But we shall not turn from Astapor. Connington, I believe that is everything?”

Jon nodded. “I agree. Gentlemen, that will be all. Aegon, if you do not mind, I would have words.” The others shuffled out the room. Aegon felt a few of them glance briefly at him. When the door to the cabin closed behind Aegon, he had expected Jon to rise from his seat. Then he would reprimand him for some reason, say that he was being too arrogant or some nonsense. But instead Jon remained in his chair, and Myles Toyne glanced at him uneasily. “I know where this came from,” he finally said.

“What I said was true.”

Jon Connington shook his head. “What you believe is not the truth. Do you want to accept Arya Stark’s death as your responsibility? Fine. If you so desperately wish to speak with Jon Snow, I will not hold that from you. But not everything we do is on you.”

“Soon, Aegon, we will be at war.” Myles Toyne’s eyes were hard and unflinching. “The Golden Company will do much to win you the Iron Throne.”

“I know that.”

The Captain-General was unconvinced. “Do you? We will kill sons of Westeros in your name. We will set fire to fields and orchards, in your name. From Sunspear to Winterfell, Westeros will bleed. And that is not on you.”

“I am the King—“

“And not everything that happens under a king’s rule is his burden. I am telling you this because you cannot allow the path to the Iron Throne to burden your reign. Men will die so you can rule. Understand that. Do not weep for them. Arya Stark died because the Golden Company failed to protect her from her own foolishness. Not because Aegon Targaryen failed her. Do you understand me?”

“I do.”

Myles Toyne narrowed his eyes. “Do you? I’m not so certain. But you will. By the time you are the Sixth of Your Name, you will understand.”

 

**THE SHE-WOLF OF WINTERFELL**

 

When the raiders came, the sun was the hottest Arya had ever felt it. She could have sworn that the saw the air simmering, twisting and turning like waves. The heat ripped at the golden disc in the sky, turning it into thin orange bright strands. Sweat had dripped down her neck, creates itching pulses behind her ear, down her back, around her ankles, everywhere. She would scratch at one place, and a new itch would emerge elsewhere.

They had set off early that day, just when the morning was still dark. Khazan had said that every inch of darkness was a blessing in the desert, and Arya believed him, damning all of the creaks in her bones all the while. They slept on rocks…and sleeping rolls, of course, but those did little good in the desert. If it were the forest around the Kingsroad, Arya could nestle against a tree, or find a bed of grass to tuck her roll on. But the desert was nothing but sand, dirt and dunes, and none of that was soft. If anything, they were scratchy and got all over.

Before the bandits came, Khazan was more than willing to protest at the state of affairs. “Not even a year ago, you would have seen these roads _teeming_ with merchants.”

“Teeming,” Arya said, doubt engrained in every syllable.

“Doubt me all you want, but it is the truth! The Good Masters of Astapor have let this road go to waste. Oh, they hunker behind their pink walls now, but what will they do a year from now? They will starve!”

She felt the wind blow, and the tumble of pebbles from the rocks that surrounded them. “No they won’t,” said Takazar, gruff and immune to Khazan’s charms. “Astapor is a harbor city. You don’t think the masters will buy food from New Ghis, or beyond?”

“Will lessen their purses,” grumbled the merchant.

“Their purses could go for a bit of lightening,” smirked Hulgor. “Their purses _and_ their tits,” grinned his twin Tulmor, and then the both of them were crackling. Arya thought those two would laugh at just about anything.

They didn’t laugh when the arrow sliced through the neck of Tazakar’s horse. Arya had only a moment to register that men poured out from behind the rocks, rode them down on horses and camels. She took her lash and slapped at the camel’s side, thinking she could turn it around. She had reached for Needle, thinking she could snag it as the camel plowed towards the bandits.

Stupid, being true to his name, had other ideas. She had turned him to go left, but right as she saw an arrow cut into Khazan’s shoulder, the camel took right. Arya had slipped, tumbling towards the ground. When she felt the thud, darkness greeted her.

In the shadows of her dream, Arya tasted the cold air, the smell of the pines. She heard Jon’s laugh, and the incoherent babble of a babe, far in the distance.

It was only when the ropes were tightened around her wrist did Arya wake. Blood trickled down her brow and stung her eye. The darkness faded away in waves, and Arya’s vision returned in blurry edges of color. She felt the humping of a horse beneath her, and men in armor and leather that she could not recognize. None of them looked alike; one was Ghiscari, other had pale hair, the next was blonde, that one right there was a fiery red. Some of their faces couldn’t be seen at all, hidden beneath the cowls of a hood.

The more Arya struggled, the more the ropes cut into her wrist. “Stop it,” came the muffled voice behind the helm. “You’ll saw off your arm if you keep it up.”

She could barely turn her head, but Arya could hear his groans. “Khazan,” she had said. “Can you hear me?” She felt him nod his head. “Narasio and the others—“

“Dead,” said the merchant. “I heard them scream Arrie. Through my pain, I could hear them die” He winced. Arya could almost see the broken arrow shaft that was sticking out of his shoulder. “We’re alone.”

“Quiet,” snapped one of the men.

 _There will be quiet when you are dead._ She wanted to struggle and snap at her captors, but her hands felt numb from the rope. And whenever she squirmed against the bindings, Khazan would groan. She couldn’t put him into any more pain than he already was. “The arrow,” Arya said. “His wound—“

“We told you to quiet,” said a man in a hood. His voice didn’t have the trait of a Ghiscari, but his flesh was dark and sun marked. “The arrow will be treated. Until then, be silent.”

They were escorted along a mountain path, a thin strip of road that emerged out of the rocks. Sometimes Arya would peer over the side, and she would see nothing but jagged stones. _If I leapt from here, Khazan and I would be smashed on the rocks below._ The red rocks soaked in the sun, and they almost looked bloody. Perhaps that was blood, and not the heat. _How many men have been killed on this path?_ Arya did not want to think about it. She would not join them. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._

She tried to count her captors. There were the two in front, the helmeted face and the one hidden beneath the shadow of his hood. But there were far more than two. She could hear the clanging of chain mail from behind her, and the crushing of stones beneath heavy boots. _Six? Eight?_ But whenever she tried to turn her head, all she could make out was Khazan’s sweat filled bushels of hair.

Khazan breathed with a wheezed weight. Arya could feel his chest rise and fall whenever he took a breath. “Khazan,” she whispered. She felt his head loll up and down. “ _Khazan_.”

“Arrie.” The word came out in a bitter choke. “You still among the living? One would think you were gone, you’ve been so quiet.”

She smiled, never mind that Khazan couldn’t see it. “Now who’s the liar? Your wound, is it—" He answered with a wince. “It’s infected.” She felt him nod, weakly.

“Why aren’t we dead? When bandits come to kill, they leave none behind. If they rob, they will leave you in the desert with just the clothes on your back yes, but they don’t kill you. They don’t go in-between like this.”

“You’ve had this happen before?”

“By the Sceptered Lord, _no_. But we merchants talk.” His voice was shaking, although if it was by the infection or the fear Arya couldn’t say. “There’s a reason most merchants do their trade from the safety of cogs.”

“You can’t be afraid,” Arya said. “Fear cuts deeper than swords.”

“Fear cuts…what does that mean?”

“It means leave the talking to me.” As they path took a turn, Arya could see a cavern. The mountain had hid it well. From a distance, one would not even see the mouth of the cavern. As they pulled Arya and Khazan off from the horse, she could see the ashes of some campfire. That was the only sign that any man lived here.

A knife cut through the rope, and Arya’s wrist sung in relief. She rubbed at them as one of the bandits prodded her with the tip of his spear. “Move,” the man growled. Arya could not say he sounded like anyone from the Free Cities. None of them did.

The walls of the cave were wet. Arya could hear the distant drips of water, somewhere far in the distance. The light from a campfire leapt across a wall, transforming the dark cave into a tunnel of gold and red. Shadows of men were stretched across the wall, and they almost seemed to dance. The raiders did not hesitate to shove Arya along.

She could hear the strings of a lute being plucked. But as they followed the turns of the tunnel, Arya saw that it wasn’t a lute at all. Arya knew what a lute was, but it wasn’t supposed to be played with a stick. The player was lying against a mound of stone, and he seemed to not notice them coming in. Twenty or thirty others were scattered across the cave, and their shadows loomed across the wall.

“Commander!” The man with the helmet tore it off from his head, and revealed his tanned flesh. His eyes were a great blue, and a golden beard rolled down his chin. “Thought you would want to meet them.”

A man rose up from a small gathering around a fire. His blonde hair was mottled in dirt and sweat, and it was cut short around his head. A small beard rolled in waves to his chin. A small loaf of bread was caught in his mouth. He took a bite, and with a mouth still full asked, “And why would I want that? You know the orders.”

“She’s not an Essosi,” said the man. “She’s from Westeros.”

That got the man’s attention. The player was still playing his tune as the bandit commander approached. “Gods, you’re right.”

“So are you,” Arya realized. “You aren’t from Essos. None of you are.” She heard some chuckles rise up around her. “What’s so funny.”

“Just that you only have the half of it,” said a man with purple hair. “Some of us are from Westeros, some of us were born here, but we all called the North home.” Arya felt her heart jump in her chest. They were all Northmen? But that didn’t seem right – none of them _looked_ like Northmen. Well, a few did, once she gave herself the time to look. Most of them had a gruff and worn look to them, but only a few had a face that seemed more shaped by the cold winds of the Wolfswood rather than the piercing bellows of the desert. And no Northman ever painted his hair _blue_.

But some of them looked Northern, and once they had taken off the helms or masks off their faces that muffled their voices, they even sounded Northern. But what would any Northman be doing so far from home? Why wouldn’t they be with Robb? _The same reason I am not with Mother and Bran in Winterfell._ But they couldn’t be in Astapor for Jon, no, that made no sense.

The commander raised his hand. “Quiet, Jarolo. You Tyroshi are too talkative for your own good.” He turned to face her. “What are you doing so far from the Free Cities?” He glared at Khazan. “And with a slaver, no less?”

Khazan stumbled to his feet. “I’m no slaver.” A man slammed the butt of a spear into his leg, forcing him back to the ground. “I’m not. I sell _carpets_!”

“You’re Ghiscari,” growled a man with an axe across his lap. “That’s close enough. You were heading for Astapor.”

Arya narrowed her eyes. “So was _I_ , that don’t make me a slaver. You promised you would help him. He’s dying from that arrow.”

“Could finish it,” said a bowman. “Won’t be dying if he’s dead.”

“Don’t you dare! He’s done nothing to any of you!”

“You will do no such thing.” A man with dark curls made his way through. Where the others were dressed in light cloaks and turbans, he was simply dressed in a robe. It was covered in splotches of dirt, and Arya could see a sweat stained shirt beneath the robe. “We need the Ghiscari.” His accent reminded Arya of Syrio Forel.

The captain gave a grunt. “Make sure he lives,” he commanded as a few of the men dragged Khazan to his feet. “I would have words with you, girl.”

Arya raised her head. “What makes you think I will give you any?”

“I won’t kill a Westerosi.”

The robed man frowned. “You will if needed. I will not see Tormo Fregar’s investment go up in flames. Your Company of Roses has been well compensated, Captain.”

At that the Captain pointed a finger. “Not all, as agreed. Too many months already we’ve been in these mountains.” He looked at Arya. “I will question the girl. You see to the Ghiscari.”

“And then what?”

“I am in charge here. You are just supervising. I’ll decide.”  He gave the robed man a glare. “Get to work, Braavosi.” Arya’s heart jumped. _He sounded just like Master Syrio! But Astapor is so far from Braavos. What would he be doing here?_ There were more people in the mountain of Astapor that _shouldn’t_ be. As the bandit Captain approached her, Arya felt a thud in her chest. She prayed Syrio’s words to herself. “If you answer my questions, will you be truthful?”

“If I answer, my life is forfeit.”

The bandit narrowed his eyes. “If you don’t answer, your life is done. Give me your name.”

Arya swallowed. “My name is Ariana, but I’m of the North.”

He nodded. “That’s what I thought. Moment I saw your face, I knew you were a Northern girl. Who is your lord?”

Arya kept herself from biting her lip. It was her brothers that were always lectured by Maester Luwin about Father’s bannermen. She knew a few – the Manderlys, the Glovers and the Umbers, Karstarks – but whoever this Captain was, he could know of them too. Was he some lord’s son, or just a warrior that found himself in Essos? “Hornwood,” she said quickly, “ruled by Lord Hornwood.”

“Lord Hornwood had a name, surely?” Of course he had a name, but Arya could not remember it. The bandit was studying her, and that just made her heart crawl up her throat.

“Lord Halys. My father served him for many years.”

“What did your father do, precisely, that would bring his little girl all the way to Essos?”

Arya licked her lips. “My father was Nichols, and he did work on the seas.”

“As a sailor?”

“Merchant,” Arya added. “He says he met a Manderly once. One of Lord Manderly’s sons.”

The commander raised a brow. “Oh? Did he say what he looked like?”

Father _had_ met Ser Wylis Manderly, once. Arya was just shy of ten, but she had overheard him say something to Mother when he had returned after a month’s time in White Harbor. “Fat as a seal, he was. More blubber than fat and bone. But my father never let Ser Wylis knew he thought that.”

“Smart man,” the bandit smiled. “So how did a merchant of the seas operate out of Hornwood? Why not White Harbor?”

Arya shrugged. “The taxman.”

“The taxman?”

“Of course. He robbed my father blind the first year. Or at least that’s what my father said, and he was no liar. And you don’t need to live _by_ the sea to live _off_ the sea. Father would be home for a month or two before he would need to set to sail again, and he planned his voyages out several months ahead of time once he returns to port. Father…wanted to be home.”

The captain of bandits was on bent knees, and his green eyes looked into Arya’s gray. “Your father sounds like a man that favored the home over the seas. You must have had many sons.”

“He did.”

“Who was the oldest?”

“Jon,” Arya said without thinking. _Fool girl. You’re Arrie, not Arya._ But Jon was Northern enough of a name, even thought she had heard that her brother was named for Jon Arryn of the Vale. “My father had four sons, but my mother would sometimes say that she had five.”

“And you were the fifth, I’d wager. Is that how you ended up on your father’s ship?”

Arya nodded. A little bit of a truth, a little bit of a lie. “It was called the Grey Wind. A very fine trading cog. Served him almost twenty years.”

“Almost,” the bandit said with suspicion. “What happened?”

“A storm,” she said softly. “White Harbor to Braavos to Volantis to Astapor, then all the way back home. It was supposed to be an easy trip.”

The bandit surprised her. He laid a tender arm on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. It cannot be easy, losing your father like that. Mine is…still say safe, back home. In Westeros. Are you certain there were no survivors?”

Nymeria flashed through her mind. She felt tears prickle at her. Arya shook her head, and gave a sniffle. _He would like that._ “No. I’m certain.”

“Again, I’m sorry.” He reached into his pockets, and Arya flinched…until she saw the rag that was in his pocket. “Easy girl. I’m not gouging out your eyes. Hold still.” He gave a few rough dabs at her eyes. “Very pretty eyes you have.”

That took Arya off guard. She couldn’t remember what to say, until a memory of Sansa saying that a lady should always speak her courtesies sprang into her mind. “Gratitude,” she said.

“They say the Starks have eyes like that.” He chuckled. “Gray, like steel. Northern steel. I heard that the Starks have eyes like that.” He peered down on her with a mischievous smile. “Do you have Stark in you?” Cold blood streamed through her, and Arya felt her tongue grow as heavy as lead. But then the bandit laughed, as if he had offered a jape. “Of course you’re not a Stark. The Starks are in Winterfell. But you must have had some Stark bastard for an ancestor, somewhere. A great-great grandmother, maybe?”

“Maybe. I wouldn’t know.”

“Of course not. Who cares where a merchant’s daughter came from? Well, no matter.”

“Commander,” said one of the men. His beard was gray speckled with some bright red. “She had a sword on her.”

“Let me see.” The raider placed Needle in his hand. He licked his lips as he pulled Needle free from the scabbard. He slowly gazed over the steel. Arya gritted her teeth; she would have yelled something out if she didn’t. “This is good steel. One would think it’s a Braavosi weapon.”

“I didn’t steal it from no Braavosi.”

He narrowed his eyes. He sheathed Needle and handed it back to the man. “I never said anything about you being a thief. Secure it away. It is not plunder, understood?” The man gave his commander an “Aye” and walked away, Needle tucked close to his chest. Arya made to rise, but the bandit captain gave her a shove. “That looks like a Braavosi blade. But I know Northern steel when I see it.”

“Like I said. It wasn’t from Braavos.”

“A sword that would be wielded by a bravo, forged from Northern steel. I don’t think there’s any sword like that in all the world. So how do you end up with a sword like that?”

“I…” Arya could not find the words. Of all the things Arya thought she would find in Essos, man that knew the mark of a Northern smith was not one of them. “It was a gift.”

The bandit raised a brow. “A gift.”

“Yes,” she said, confidence returning to her. “A gift. My brother gave it to me. He had been to Essos before. Several times in fact.”

He narrowed his eyes. “The one named Jon, eh?”

Arya nodded. “We were always close. He was older than me, but…we were close.”

“Close enough to gift you a sword. Surprised that your father would allow that. Nevermind that, how did he afford it? Just how well did your father do with his Grey Wind?”

“Well enough.” She put some agitation into her voice, just like any girl whose beloved father was questioned. “And I know what to do with it too. Stick them with the pointy end.”

The bandit laughed at that, a coarse and worn out sound. “Aye, that’s the gist of it. Is it all for show? Or could you really stick me like a pig?”

Arya raised up her hands, bonded tight against her wrists. “Cut me loose and find out for yourself.”

“Sharp tongue on this one. More reason to keep you under watch. You’re not going anywhere.”

She rushed to her feet, forgetting that all the men around her had a weapon on them. “You said you would let me go! I answered your questions.”

“I did not. I said I wouldn’t throw you over a cliff. Which I won’t. I’m not killing any Northern woman, even if she did work for Volantenes. You,” he said pointing to a man with a salt-and-pepper beard, “Aldrick, make sure she goes nowhere.”

“Aye, Forrester.”

Arya blinked. “Forrester? House Forrester?”

He smiled. “Aye. Asher Forrester, son of Lord Gregor Forrest of Ironrath, and Commander of the Company of the Rose. Do as I say, and you just may make it out of this alive. Rebel, and you will end up as a stain on the rocks. That is not a threat, but a promise. Nod if you understand me.”

Arya nodded.

 

**THE WOLF IN THE PITS**

 

The hard song of steel rang across the courtyard. Arekor looked at him from the shadows beneath an olive tree. The dark green leaves were a strange contrast with the rest of the Hrasher estate…and even all of Astapor itself. Red and redder was the flesh of the city, except for the brown sands that blew in from the land beyond. And beneath a green tree lingered Arekor, his hair of white straw tussled by the wind. “There was a disagreement, between father and son.”

Jon crossed his arms as he looked over his shoulder. None were looking their way. “What of it?”

Arekor sucked in some drool. “Master Alezek has ambitions beyond being a Blooded Master. He wants to be a member of the Circle.” Jon responded with a _hrm_. “The ruling council of the city. Most of them are made up by the Harpies.”

“Those that can trace their lineage back to Old Ghis?”

His blind eye blinked. “Yes. It was quite the argument, between the Masters. It’s been some time since they argued out in the open like that.”

“Half the manse must know then,” Jon grumbled. “Is that all?”

Arekor gave off a shrug. “They argued about the Nakloz Masters bringing a guest. Master Terzac did not approve.”

 _I care less than nothing for that._ “What of this Paraszys sol Nierhols?” Not a single bloodsworne was ignorant of why the Master was having a celebration. In a perverse way, it reminded Jon of the feast Father had thrown for King Robert. _But one was out of honor and obligation, while this is sourced from greed._

“What he always wants,” Arekor said with a shaking of his head. “The Master entertains him, and in turn he grants us entry into his great games.” Jon didn’t like it. What did this Paraszys want? Perhaps he just wanted to gorge himself, and have another bear the cost. _That seems too simple of a dream, though._ “I have heard nothing, Andal. Unless you want to know that Master Alezek has fucked his pleasure slave again. A pretty thing from Norvos.”

“Not particularly. I’m more interested in your arm. How is the grip?” Jon moved towards the giant’s monstrous hand. While the other was withered and shrunken, Arekor’s dominant arm was a massive display of muscle. Even though Arekor was untrained, Jon would fear for his life he was caught in the tight grip.

Arekor grabbed Jon by the wrist, and squeezed. “How do you think?” His massive lips curled into a smile

Jon wiggled his arm free, but just barely. A flash of pain echoed down his wrist, but after a few rubs it began to sooth. “I think it’s tight enough. You might not even need a sword, if you can get your hands on a man.”

“That’s dangerous.” Arekor’s eye was almost purple under the right light. “A man without a sword is a dead man in the arena.”

“I wasn’t being serious. Not entire. I was told by Ser…a knight that you need an axe to carve through steel. I don’t think he ever met a man like you though.” Jon gripped Arekor’s muscles. “Not with an arm like this. You could do just as well with a straight sword, I think.”

His eye was narrowed. “Who was this Ser?”

 _Ser Rodrik Cassel. Master-at-Arms for my father._ “A knight I knew. His name doesn’t matter. How is your stance?” he asked quickly. “Are they still as barrel legged as before?”

“No,” Arekor lied. He straightened his back and showed how wide apart he could spread his legs.

Jon frowned. “Your legs are still too wide.” Jon rubbed the bridge of his nose. The sweat was stinging his eyes, and the stench was rolling off him. The heat of Astapor was ruthless, and one bath a day wasn’t enough for Jon’s liking. Not the way that Yarkaz would duel with him. The man was a storm of muscle and steel, and Jon would never know how he could move so fast when the sun was so hot.

“You told me a week ago that my legs were too close. You told me that I need to spread my legs to keep from falling over.”

“And now,” Jon said, “no man will never need to push you over. They just need to kill you from the back. You’ll be as slow as a turtle. Slower even.”

“I won’t need to worry for that.” Arekor smiled with a twitch. “Not if I kill him first.”

“Yes, if you can hit the man. You’re as strong as any auroch I’ve seen. Good if you are charging against a boar. But what if you need to trample a hare?” Doubt began to form in Arekor’s eye. “Maybe your first opponent will be too shocked by your appearance. The second will be wiser than your first. As it stands, you only have a shadow of a chance in the arena.”

Arekor spat onto the ground, a thick string of saliva weaving from his mouth. “Then teach me.”

“I am,” Jon insisted. _He grows more impatient by the day._ “Before you didn’t even have a shadow.” Jon scratched at his neck. The dribbles of sweat had forced an itch from him.

Arekor made to protest, but he stopped. “Andal,” he said with a point of his large finger. Jon turned and saw Iorwen approach. The sweat from the sun and the drills had casted a bright sheen over his dark skin, and his scars were glistening.

The Tyroshi was all smiles. He leaned on his wooden sword. “How do you do it?”

Jon arched a brow. “Do what?”

“Train with Yarkaz and spend your time with this one and not fall flat on your face.”

Jon crossed his arms. “Dueling with the Titan is not a choice.”

“No, I would suppose not. But why bother with Arekor? What can a man with one arm do in the arena?”

Arekor may have been made monstrous, but he had his pride. “Put me in and find out.”

“I’d rather not.” He smiled with confidence. Jon suddenly thought of Robb, who could charm and befriend any man within Winterfell. “Jon, walk with me for a bit?”

“Why?”

“Because the gods know you need some air in your lungs. Come on.” Without even waiting for Jon, Iorwen started to walk. Jon debated for a moment, and quickly muttered to Arekor that they did enough for the day, and for him to go make himself useful. Jon caught up easily enough. “You have been spending a lot of time with Arekor.”

 _Is this what he wants?_ “What of it?”

“I hear some ask why the man who held his own against the Titan of Astapor would want to waste his time on the monster.” Jon gritted on his teeth and kept himself from speaking. Iorwen must have read the look on his face. “The words of others, not mine own. I know firsthand not to judge a man by mere looks alone. Who would have thought that a Yunkai’I pleasure slave would eventually fight for the house of Hrasher?”

Beneath his scars, Iorwen had a pretty face. Jon could almost see him smelling of perfumes and dressed in velvet. “I’m sure you used that to your advantage.”

“You’re not wrong.” A strong wind ruffled against Jon’s cheek. The Astapori sun was beating down on them, and Jon could feel the heat rip at his neck. “That’s probably how I survived my first fight. And my second. And my third now that I think about it.”

“And your fourth?”

“Well, by then I knew I could not rely on the same trick four times in a row. And I already got this scar.” He taps the thin scar that rode from the ball of his shoulder to the center of his chest. “With that, I lost my distinction as the soft faced pleasure slave that kills you in the pits. So Iorwen the Tyroshi learned to train. I wasn’t so soft faced after that, but I still had a smile the audience loved.” Iorwen scratched at this chin. “So, what do you think of tonight?”

Jon shrugged. “Nothing. We will do what we need to do, then the day will end.”

Iorwen smiled. “Even if it means bedding one of the masters?”

“What?” Jon snorted.

His smile grew. “You don’t find it queer, how so many of the masters look so damn _different_? Where do you think they got their red and dark hair from? Not from any harpy, I promise you. The Flayed Twins bless us when we are victors in the blood pits. Some say that, for a short time, we are demigods.” Jon didn’t feel divine when he had killed in any of the pits. “And let’s be honest, the women surely see appeal in us. Look at us, all chiseled and scarred and raw, while their husbands are pudgy and covered in rolls of fat. So, they fuck us.”

“They fuck us?”

“They fuck us,” Iorwen said again. “Happy to take our seed into their cunts, maybe let it sprout into a new young master, say that there is divinity in the spawn, and not bat an eye when the father of their child is cut to pieces in the pits.” He shrugged. “That’s our lot in life. We kill, sometimes we fuck, and then we die.”

 _That’s not my fate._ Terzac vo Hrasher could send him into as many games as he pleased. Jon would still survive. He swore that nothing would keep him from ending Bloodbeard, and he still held to that oath. “Arekor said something of a guest.”

Iorwen raised a brow. They had made their way towards the olive tree, the one source of shade in the training pit. The heat of Astapor had stolen any possibility for the tree to bear its namesake, but the branches and leaves still gave a welcome escape from the sun. “Guest? I know nothing of that. I know we will be putting up some kind of a show.”

“A show?”

Iorwen nodded. “Probably a mock battle of some sort. Master is getting a bunch of masters under one roof. What better reason than to show us off? ‘Look at how mighty and powerful my bloodsworne are! Give me your money!’” Iorwen rubbed his fingers together. “He’ll be giving us mock blade. Can you handle some bruises on that pretty skin of yours?”

Jon shook his head. “My skin is not pretty.”

“Andal, if it weren’t for those scars, you’d have probably been sent to the house of sighs in the city. Some mistresses would cut out their tongues to get a chance to be in bed with you. Shame that you ended up in the blood pits, with me.”

“Shame,” Jon said. “You ruin my mystique with your ugly ass. Too many brands, Iorwen.”

“Without a doubt,” he smiled. “Good thing I like you, Andal. When I manage to get some winnings in the games, I’ll share some of the profits with you.”

“And why would you do that? Wouldn’t you rather spend that on wine?”

“True. But you are a pitiful sight, stuck at my side. The sooner you are out of here, the better. You’ll probably get yourself killed outside these walls, so I’ll be sure to drink to your memory.”

Jon allowed himself to smile. “Iorwen, you are too kind.”

 

**THE MOTHER OF DRAGONS**

 

The Astapori heat was nothing to her dragons. Dany watched as they climbed higher into the sky, Visgar toying with Rhaexes. His jaws nipped at the slender green tail of his brother, and before long Rhaexes had barreled into Visgar. Their twirled and circled around each other, their claws scraping against their soft flesh. The first time Dany saw them do this, she feared they meant to rip each other apart. But they were only playing, learning the limits of their bodies. Before long they split apart, and they sailed across the orange sky.

Dany was watching from the balcony, as a slave silently poured wine into her cup. There was little sweetness in it, but it parched her throat. “They are growing stronger,” Ser Jorah said from the back. “Do all dragons grow so quickly?”

“My brother told me that dragons could grow large and bold, so long as they had the open sky for their wings.” The second part was a lie, only in that Viserys never uttered those words. It was something Dany had come to realize in the months since their birth. It had to be, because while her son remained a small thing, her dragons were growing. They used to be lighter than cats, but now they were bigger than dogs. Dany wouldn’t even dare let any of them perch on her shoulder. It took more than a few whacks on the nose for them to understand.

“If only they were bigger,” said Tareoh Neh Khaluk. The Black Sheep adjusted the linen that covered his missing eye. “Would be a swell thing for them to breath fire.”

 _Upon our enemies_. Tareoh was wise to keep the rest of his words silent, but Dany saw the glimmer in his eye. “Oh, but they do.” Dany heard the whipping of wings, and saw that Visgar was fast approaching. “To me,” she commanded, and the silver dragon perched upon the rail. “Dracarys.” And thin black strands of smoke slipped from his jaw, and when it opened wide Dany saw a flicker of flame. A flicker that became a red spear, and the center of the flame was white and silvery. 

The flame lasted only for a moment. Dany heard something like a gust of steam, and then Visgar snapped his jaw shut. He hung his head low. “Amazing,” Tareoh breathed.

“But dracarys?” asked Ser Jorah.

“It is Valyrian for dragonfire,” she explained. She reached for Visgar, and he allowed her fingers to rub at his head. “I needed a word that they could understand on command, and that no one would say by accident.”

“Wise thinking,” Tareoh said with a nod. “I’d rather not have my ass roasted.”

“Neither would I,” Ser Jorah said with a nod. He looked over the yard, beyond the capapris trees, and saw Kraznys mo Nakloz staring upwards at the dragons. The knight gave Dany a knowing look. “He is always there, when you let the dragons fly in the sky.”

“I know,” she said. “I want him to see them. Let the Master become envious of my dragons.”

“We are in his home.” Tareoh leaned close. “He has eyes and ears in the walls.”

“Of course he does. But our lives are not in danger.”

“My Queen,” said Ser Jorah, “are you so certain.”

 _No._ “Yes. The Masters have their sort of honor. I am not the first to be a guest within their walls. Let us say Kraznys moves against me.”

“Let us say he kills you.” There was a weight to the knight’s words.

She turned. “Let us say that. Who will then deal with Kraznys mo Nakloz? The world will know him as a man who cannot be trusted. And what does a merchant have, but his trustworthiness? A merchant that lies does not last long, I think.”

“A merchant that deals in flesh,” said Tareoh.

“He is still a merchant,” Dany insisted. “I know what he wants.”

“Your dragons,” said the knight.

“And so long as I have what he wants, I am safe in his home. If a merchant becomes a thief, he becomes a pariah. And that is not what Kraznys wants, I think. So I will humor him.” She looked between Ser Jorah and Tareoh Neh Kheluk. “Where is No-Eyes?”

Tareoh’s one eye flickered between Dany and Ser Jorah. “I thought you knew.”

Her patience was running out. “Speak quickly, Lhazareen.”

“Bathing.”

Tareoh had the right of it. When she made her way for the baths, she found No-Eyes there. The steel bath was steaming, and No-Eyes hung his feet over the edge. A white rag was folded over his head, and he was submerged nearly up to his chin. A slave, that was dressed in a towel that was wrapped tightly around her, was rubbing her thumbs into his flesh. With every stroke, No-Eyes responded with a hum.

“No-Eyes.”

His toes twiddled. “Khaleesi,” he purred. The slave must have been very good at her work. She continued to rub pleasure into his shoulder.

“Can you speak.”

“Oh, yes. But with difficulty.” He tilted his head and allowed the slave to rub her fingers into his shoulder.

“Then speak with me.”

“Without question.”

“Alone.”

“Oh,” he realized. He took the slave’s hand into his, and gave her a few pats. “Leave us, my dear. But not too far.” The slave gave only a nod, her curled brown hair swaying over her forehead, before she rose up and left the room. When the door was sealed behind them, No-Eyes straightened himself. Dany could see a bountiful of scars that raced across his brown flesh. “What do you need from me, Khaleesi?”

“Words. Advice. Counsel.” She got closer to the bath. “Tell me what you see.”

No-Eyes tilted his head. “That is very little.”

“You know what I mean.” There was a wicked smile on No-Eyes’ face. “I’ve been thinking about Kraznys.”

“I would hope so.” He leaned over the lips of the bath, lying his chin on his arms. “That man wants something more than your hoards.”

“Do you think he knows?”

“That what we have is barely enough for a hundred Unsullied? Without a doubt. Tell me, how fat is this Kraznys mo Nakloz?”

“Almost as big as Magister Illyrio of Pentos. And that one was the plumpest man I have ever seen.”

“Then I trust him as far as I can throw him. Khaleesi, he wants more than just your wealth.”

“He wants me,” she knew. “He wants a son that has dragon’s blood. A harpy that can breathe fire.”

“Know there is more worth to you than what is between your legs.”

“I know that, No-Eyes. My brother almost made me forget, but Jon—“

“Khaleesi, you can not think on what Jon believes. Or on what you believe. You thought you had the right to have a son only by him, not by your husband.”

Dany clutched her fingers. “I was _sold_.”

“Even so,” No-Eyes said with a nod. “You thought like Daenerys Targaryen, and Jon thought like Jon Snow. And that almost got you and your precious babe killed. It must certainly got Jon in chains. You must not think like Daenerys. Khaleesi, you must think like Kraznys mo Nakloz.”

“Think what he thinks,” Dany said, “want what he wants.” No-Eyes nodded. “He’ll be inviting me to dinner, no doubt.”

“Without a doubt. Has the fat Master ever failed in sharing dog with you?”

She grimaced. “No.”

“Good, you’re learning. But that’s an easy lesson.”

 _What is Kraznys thinking?_ Dany knew that he wanted to crush her beneath him as he filled her with his seed. But she would have to be blind to not know that. Almost all of his private words with her were undercut with his desires. But he wants more than a son with the blood of Valyria and Ghis. He wants more than her dragons.

 _He wants me to be in his debt._ Any man could sell off his Unsullied. No doubt Kraznys had done it a hundred times. _What does he want more than me and my dragons?_

 _My pride._ “He will ask for me tonight.”

“Without a doubt, Khaleesi.”

“Then I should get ready.” She rose to her feet. “And are you done with your bath?”

“Not if I have a say,” he smiled.

“Then I should take my leave. Don’t get more wrinkles than you already have.” As she left the baths, she heard No-Eyes lean back into the steaming waters, submerging himself with a whimsy smile on his face.

When Dany returned to her chambers, Irri and Jhiqui were waiting for her. The room was a massive sprawl of stone and carpets, with twin hearths, a bed so wide four could fit beneath the sheets, and a massive store of wine and spirits, “The Master will summon for me. Make sure I am dressed. Irri, what do you think the Kraznys mo Nakloz would approve?”

“I would not know, Khaleesi,” she admitted with some reluctance. “A Master is not a Khal. A Khal would want furs and fangs, and rich velvets. But what does a Master of Chains want? There is no strength in the eyes of Kraznys.”

Jhiqui gave a discerning look. “Perhaps the Khaleesi, should dress as one. Show no fear in the eyes of the Master.”

“A nice idea.” _How I’d wish to spit in the eyes of Kraznys mo Nakloz._ “But not when we are guests. Not when Jon’s fate lies in the balance. In the chest there is a silver dress. I will wear that.” With a shrug Dany let her simple gown fall to her knees and kicked them out of the way. Irri and Jhiqui were quick in their work, placing perfume on her neck and her wrists and elegantly tying the silver dress around her waist. When Dany beheld herself in the mirror, she thought she looked too much like a princess. _I am the Queen of the Silver Kingdoms._ When she would return to Westeros, she would need garments of black and crimson commissioned.

Once her handmaids were finished, she started to hear the cries of her son. _Daemon_. Quickly Dany dismissed the both of them and picked her son up from his cradle. It was carved from wood, and was held up the wings of harpies. _My son was not the first babe to be nursed in this place._ He let out a mighty wail, before Dany let one of the straps fall and bared her breast. He quickly came to succor upon her.

“I wonder if you will remember these days.” She could not help but rub at his cheeks with a thumb. “Do you know how much danger you are in? I need to play with these fat slavers, so that I can save your father. I need to smile while they call me…well, things that you will not call another woman. But we all have our mummer’s game to play, little one. I need to entertain the Master, and you…well, you need to _live_ , beyond all else.” She saw his purple eyes twinkle.

Daemon was nursed and rolling in his cradle by the time she heard a few knocks on her door. “My Lady,” came the soft voice of the girl. “The Gracious Master Kraznys would ask your attendance at dinner.”

Dany opened the door wide, and she saw Missandei. She had long since become familiar with the girl’s face. She was Kraznys mo Nakloz’s preferred translator. The girl was only two-and-ten, but behind her endless courtesies Dany could hear more wits and cunning than Kraznys had in all his fat rolls. “Tell him I would be delighted.” There was a smile on Dany’s lips, but her eyes were having none of it.

There was a slight twitch of a grin on the slave. _She has learned too much of me._ “The Gracious Master would ask for your attendance now, if it pleases you.”

 _It would please me if he would throw himself from the tallest peak of Astapor._ “I would be delighted.”

Dany knew the way by now. Missandei had collected Dany a dozen times, but Dany allowed the girl to lead the way. She wanted to give Kraznys no shadow of an excuse to torment the young girl. “The Master will be pleased to see you, My Lady.”

 _That one is always pleased to see me._ “Please express my gratitude to him. He took in my people when the other Masters rejected me.”

“Master Kraznys is…” _A toad._ “Wise and benevolent, My Lady.” _Only when it profits him._ Missandewi turned a corner, and a long hall stretched before her. The carved windows were open, and thin shades stretched down the walls. Dany could smell the spices of roasted dog from the other end of the hall. “Master Kraznys awaits you my lady.”

Missandei began to walk past Dany. “Shall you not come?” asked, turning.

“The Master…” Her words were trapped in her throat.

“Would no doubt want his most skilled translator and scribe with him. Come,” Dany said as she grabbed Missandei by the fingers. “I insist.” Her golden eyes grew as Dany tugged her down the hall.

Kraznys mo Nakloz awaited them. His breasts were bigger than hers, Dany considered, and hers were no small things. His long dark hair dangled down his wide shoulders, and they gleamed with an abundance of oil. His face was beardless, save for a twisted and coiled thing that dangled from his chin. “So the Sunset Bitch finally arrived.” Kraznys did not wait for her, Dany saw. His fat fingers dripped with grease. “What are you doing here, slave?”

“The Princess requested me,” Missandei said in the harsh Bastard Valyrian. “She wanted me to come.”

The Master snorted. “Well come faster next time.”

“Brother,” said Astrazys mo Nakloz with a thin smile, “they came. So now we can eat. Slave, you can wait at the entrance of the chamber.”

When Missandei began to turn, Dany smiled. “Tell them that I would have you eat with me. All of my handmaidens and servants dine at my table.”

Missandei gave Dany a queer look, but Dany only gave the most earnest smile. Missandei spoke the words to Kraznys. “Fine,” he snorted as he drank from a golden cup. “But only the worst parts of the dog. You get no plate.”

“Remind the Master, that a Khaleesi of the Dothraki shares her meal with her servants, off of her own plate. Only a Khal is permitted the honor of his own food.” That was a lie of course, but she would not expect any Ghiscari to know better. “A Khaleesi must be humble.”

She could see Kraznys twitch at Missandei repeated what Dany told her. “Fine,” he muttered, and with a sloppy wave of his fat arms a slave gave Missandei a gilded plate, filled with spiced dog meat, grapes and slices of mango. Astrazys smiled at his brother’s annoyance.

“When you are not stuffing yourself,” Kraznys growled, “tell the… _girl_ that I would love to succor upon those breasts of hers.”

“Brother,” sighed Astrazys, “please. She does not know our tongue, but surely she can understand you well enough.”

“Good.” Kraznys tore off a strip of dog and stuffed it into his mouth. “Let her know how much I would fill her.”

“Repeat none of that,” Astrazys said quickly. “Tell her that the streets of Astapor are beautiful at night. All of the pyramids are lit with silk lanterns. But all pale in comparison to the beauty of the last Targaryen.”

“Tell him,” Dany said after Missandei translated, “that I am not the last Targaryen. I have a son.”

Astrazys licked his lips. “Tell her my apologies. The last Targaryen _princess_ , I should have added.”

 _Queen_. _You should have said Queen._ “And ask him where all these courtesies are coming from.”

“A man admires beauty.” He took a sip of wine. “But you have no entered the streets of Astapor since my brother took you in.”

She had not, that much was true. But Dany did not allow herself to be blinded. She gathered her Bloodriders to her a few days, and gave them commands. “Send out men that you trust onto the streets. Kraznys mo Nekloz as far as I can toss him. Have them find out what they can, and have them bring women, so that they can go into places where the men cannot.”

“What would you have us find, Blood-of-My-Blood?” asked Rakharo.

“Anything,” she had said. “But especially of Jon.” When her Bloodriders returned to her a few days past, on a night when Kraznys’ lecherous words made her feel twisted and disgusted, they also brought word of a “Black Dog”. A man that was in the Pits, who was said to be an Andal. It was so little to go on…and yet…and yet….

“She has not seen my Unsullied,” moaned the fat man. “She has not seen the greatest wonders of the world.”

“Brother,” Astrazys said with a tilt of his head, “you say that of every generation of Unsullied.”

“Because it is true. Every time we breed new Unsullied, they become the greatest sight to behold. None can compare to watching my Unsillied at work.”

“Our Unsillied, brother.”

“Nonsense,” he said as he ripped into a cherry. His chins flapped as he chewed. “You have the name of Nakloz, but you wouldn’t know the first thing about forging whelps into Unsullied.”

“He’s right,” Astrazys said, looking at Dany. “Too much blood, too offensive for my tastes. You don’t understand a single word I’m speaking. They kill puppies first. Then babies. Did you know that?” Missandei opened her mouth. “Don’t translate that.”

 _Babies?_ She had not heard how the Unsullied were trained. She had imagined their lessons were drilled into them…that they were discipline ferociously. But they were made to kill babies? The image of Daemon being torn from her arms entered her mind. She forced it away. “Tell…” The words were caught in her throat. She took a sip of the wine, swallowed it, allowed the sweetness to wash away the apprehension in her voice. “Ask the good Astrazys what he does. I have heard far and wide the splendors of the Unsullied. But that is the domain of his brother.”

Astrazys mo Nakoz rested his chin on folded fingers, his dark eyes focused on Daenerys. “Tell the Targaryen heiress that I am a part of the Circle of Masters. My brother’s Unsullied are the lifeblood of Astapor. While I…well, I am one voice among many that governs the city and keeps Astapor a jewel of the world.”

Dany kept her face still until Missandei finished. She had more than a few words to say what kind of jewel Astapor was, but she remained silent and polite. “A council. You must know a great deal of this city then, to rule so wisely.”

“One would hope,” he smiled.

Dany forced herself to down a small cut of dog. “Tell Master Astrazys that I would love to know more about the Blood Pits. Astapor is known throughout the world for it’s Unsullied, and the fighters in the Pits.” _And they all pale to me in comparison to this Black Dog._

“Girl,” Kraznys mo Nakloz said, “correct her. Fighters do not fight in the Pits. It is Bloodsworne. We do not foul the sands with the unworthy.”

“What is the difference?” Dany asked after Missandei finished.

“Fighters are free,” Missandei explained. “Bloodsworne are slaves. But they are above other slaves. They fight for the glory of their masters. And they…” The little girl gave a wayward glance to the Nakloz brothers. “They can earn their freedom.”

“How?”

“What is she saying?” demanded the fat man.

“Master, she is asking about the Bloodsworne.”

Kraznys chuckled, his heavy breasts heaving. “Why ask when she can see them? She can be my guest to one of Yieklaz’s games.”

“Your guest, brother?” Astrazys smiled. “We can do better. Terzac shall be honoring Paraszys sol Nierhols in a day’s time.”

“Ah,” he breathed, “of course. I wonder what that sly dog has in mind. Is it usually not the other way around?”

“Usually, but that’s not relevant. Daenerys Targaryen is asking about the Bloodsworne. Let her see them in the halls of their Master. And what better place than in Terzac’s home?”

“The man is the greatest trainer of Bloodsworne in all of Astapor.”

“And a dear friend besides. Daenerys’ presence would attract patrons and sponsors for quite a while, I’d imagine.”

As Kraznys nodded, his chins flapped. “I owe him much, for what he did after Father passed. Slave, tell the dragon whore that we will bring her to Terzac vo Hrasher’s estate on the morrow.”

“Oh,” said Astrazys quickly, “and tell her that Terzac also has a unique Bloodsworne. I saw the man fight myself, and he is a unique fellow. The Andal known as the Black Hound. Oh, but what is his name? It was something primitive and simple. It’s on my tongue.”

“Jon,” grunted Kraznys with impatience. Dany could feel her heart beat through her chest. “You told me his name was Jon. A Westerosi of some sort.”

 

**THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE**

 

Terzac knew he shouldn’t be tapping his fingers. It reminded him far too much of his father, who always had the tendency to rasp against a desk whenever Terzac was dragged before him. But that was the better option, than throttling Alezek. “You suggested _what_ to Astrazys mo Nakloz?”

For a moment, the only thing to be heard were the scuttling of feet in the distance, as the slaves got to work preparing the party for Paraszys’ honor. Alezek almost brought the glass of pale wine to his lips, but at the last moment he hesitated. “It was a sound plan, Father.”

“Daenerys Targaryen being allowed within the walls of _my_ house is anything but sound. Bad enough that I must tolerate her musk polluting the air of Astapor, but now I find out that Astrazys and Kraznys will be bringing her _here_? _Tonight_? And they get the idea from you, my _son_?”

Now his son decided to indulge in his wine. “Father, you are focusing on what her husband did, and not what she wants. She wants to throw treasures at our feet. She wants to buy an army. And we all know the rumors of what she has.”

Terzac gritted his teeth. “Don’t tell me you listen to such shit.”

“I have to,” Alezek said. “Rumors sometimes have worth. Rumors led you to Jon in the Abyss.”

“But _dragons_? Essos hasn’t seen dragons in a thousand years. And the Targaryens allowed theirs to die out not so long ago.”

“There has to be _some_ reason why Kraznys mo Nakloz housed her in his pyramid.”

“Her husband tried to break us. Her husband tried to murder us.”

“Tried and failed,” Terzac said in a tone too much like his mother. “And you think she had any say in it? Khal Drogo wanted to burn us, yes. But Daenerys wants to do business with us. And every master in the city wants to do business with her.”

“None of those that have sense.”

“Maybe, but those without sense are also more likely to throw money around. And if Daenerys Targaryen shows us favor, then _they_ might decide to sponsor a bloodsworne or two.”

Terzac could hardly look at his son. He rose from his chair and turned. A sudden dizziness came over him, forcing him to lean on a pillar. “I’d rather none at all, if her favor is the price for it.”

“Father,” Alezek said softly, “pride alone won’t keep us alive. Practicality has it’s uses.”

 _I know what kind of son you are. The one that was raised high by the efforts of his ancestors, and would piss on them once he had risen to the mountaintop._ He still had time to show Alezek the way. Terzac wasn’t dead yet. He was still the master of the house. “We do what we must. If I must suffer the presence of Daenerys Targaryen because of your arrogance, so be it.”

“Father—“

“Not another word, Alezek! I can’t turn her away, not now. And I won’t make a show of her, I promise you. She will be treated as well as any other guest within our walls. But, Alezek, don’t you _dare_ overstep these boundaries ever again.”

“You expect me to do nothing? I am trying to advance our house. Bring wealth and prosperity to the name of Hrasher.”

“I expect you to honor your father!” His fingers scraped against the crimson stones of the pillar. That came out harsher than he meant, but the boy could so easily bring out the rage in him. _His mother so easily calmed me. How is our son so different?_ “You see gold and fame, and mistake that for respect and privilege. They are _not_ the same, Alezek. Gods help you if you don’t learn that by the time I have passed from this world.”

He knew that Alezek was about to speak. Terzac turned. _He is too much like his mother. He is too much like me._ Alezek rose to his feet, the wooden chair screeching against the floor. “Father! How many times would you tell me that a master of a blooded house must always be seeking out glorifications to the Frayed Twins? On one hand you encourage me to forge this house in my own image, but with the other you deter me! What do you want from me!”

“I told you what I want from you, Alezek.”

“No you haven’t!” His son hurried before him, standing in Terzac’s way. “You spew fucking madness!”

“Watch your tongue.”

The slaves were watching him. The shuffling steps came to a crawl, and he could almost hear the halted breath that hung in the air. “My tongue? It is the voice of your son and heir. I am the future master of this house. And when that happens…” There was a moment’s hesitation, but only a moment’s. “The world will _change_ , Father. I can’t be you.”

“Here?” Terzac demanded. “You want to have this conversation here and now?”

“Where else, but in our home? Month after month you make bargains with the other masters. These same masters, I should add, that feel free to vote themselves into the Circle. But never us.” Alezek stabbed his chest with his finger. Every word was a jab. “Never the Blooded Masters that bring so much wealth and prestige to the city.”

“You know your place,” Terzac said hotly. “It is in the arena. When will you give up this dream?” Terzac marched past. _I would not have the slaves hear such fool talk._

Alezek followed on his heels. “Why should I? Why force me? Is our voice worthless to the city?”

“Of course not. We have friends in the Circle of Masters.”

“Why have friends? Why exclude those that pour blood into the Pits? Our voice should have _power_ in the city, Father!”

“It is not how things are, Alezek. The masters with the blood of the Harpy are the ones that rule. It has been that way since the golden age of Ghis. You need to be content.”

“Content?” Alezek spoke the word like a curse. “Content with those Masters forcing us to grovel at their feet? Never.”

Terzac flexed his fingers. _Steady breaths calm the mind. He is your son. How often did Father’s rage push you away? He is your son. Calming breaths._ He turned to face his boy. His mother was bought, but there was so little of her in his eyes _._ His face was all that of a master of Astapor. _My face._ “Let us entertain this notion. This…aspiration of yours. You do not just walk into Circle and demand to become a Circleman.”

“I know.”

“It costs money, to run an election. To spread the word of your worth, to buy votes and sponsor strawmen. Where would you gather this capital?”

“From the only place it matters. Other masters. They come to us day after day for entertainment. How often do they spill secrets in our presence?”

Terzac gave a scorching look. “You would turn on them? Then should you ever win a place in the Circle, it would be short lived. And you would accomplish nothing, and tarnish our name in the process.”

“Of course not,” Alezek said with a shake of his head. Terzac made for his office, and Alezek followed. “What’s the point of entering the Circle if I have no power there? The point I am making is that they trust us. Some of the Sons of the Harpy even call us friends.”

“The house of Nakloz.” He opened the door wide and strolled into his office. There was a hot breeze that swayed the curtains. He heard the fine tapestries whip against the air.

“For a start,” Alezek said. There was a glint in his son’s eye as he took his seat. The desk was carved from rich oak, and the swirls beneath the wood would shine under a certain light. His grandfather, Kalazek, had it commissioned. Terzac had never met the man, but Father had told him that Kalazek had brought their family from financial calamity. Sometimes Terzac wondered if his grandfather had commissioned such a desk just to prove to the world that the name of Hrasher would never fall. He wondered if his own son would prove Kalazek wrong. “But just for a start. Many of the richest families come to us for entertainment. Normally they pay us in gold. I would suggest a richer currency, in favors and oaths.”

“Promises to support you in your campaign.”

Alezek nodded. “Sometimes the right word has more power than a contract. And just the appearance of friendship can propel some to my side.”

“That still doesn’t answer how you will _fund_ your election. Favors and fellowship are good, needed even, but an empty coffer means no votes.”

“Like you said, Father, we have friends. Friends can give out loans. And if they should prove false…there are banks. Loaners.”

That made Terzac’s skin go cold. “You would indebt yourself? Don’t tell me you would crawl to the Braavosi.”

“By the Graces, no! That would damn me the moment I walked beneath the Titan’s shadow. But even Lys or the Volantenes have their loansmen. Cities of respect, that knows the worth of a Master of Astapor. Should the worst come, I can deal with them.”

Terzac was liking this the more he heard of it. His fingers felt the grooves in the chair. “Let us assume the miracles of miracles. You accomplish your dream, and join the Circle of Masters. What of this place? Who will administer the Bloodsworne, strike contracts with the Masters, seek out petitions for the games?”

Alezek smiled. “Marsoltor.”

If Terzac was drinking, he would have surely choked. “The _Alashant?_ ”

“Who else? The man was raised to a Titan in this place, and he raised Yarkaz from a brutish slave into a Titan of his own right. The men respect him, and he knows the Bloodsworne. He knows what divides the weak from the strong, how to cull out the worthless, how much a man is worth. He knows a trade in a way that only an Alashant can. Who better than he to take up the mantle?”

“Anyone else.”

“You hold him because he is branded and slaved? Father—“

“Does the name of Hrasher mean nothing to you!” Terzac did not feel his first pounding at the desk. “What is a man without a name? He is nothing! I respect Marsoltor! I could not imagine a better Alashant. But he is not a man of the blood. Of _our_ blood. Of our name!” Alezek made to speak, but with a raised hand Terzac silenced him. “Do not speak of this to me again, and may the Ageless Crone give you wisdom. Leave me. We have festivities to prepare for.”

 

**THE MOTHER OF DRAGONS**

 

From behind the curtains of her litter, Dany could see that the streets of Astapor took on a strange glow at night. Astrazys mo Nakloz was not wrong when he said the silk lanterns were radiant against the smooth black stones of the pyramids. Dany would afford that was the _only_ thing she would find beautiful about the city.

Dany had not stepped out on the streets since the day Paraszys sol Nierhols firmly suggested to Kraznys mo Nakloz that he should permit her into his pyramid. “Let them dream of you, Khaleesi,” No-Eyes had suggested. “You are the Mother of Dragons. Do not become a person. Be the myth and legend that brings fantasies into their minds. Do not let them know you.”

“And what of Jon Snow?” Ser Jorah had responded. “He is why we are here in the first place, is he not? If Her Grace remains a fantasy, as you suggest, then that will delay his rescue. We can’t both take action and not do anything.”

“Know that there is a balance in all things, Jorah of the Andals. In love and hate, wisdom and insight, and yes, even in fantasy and reality. The image the Khaleesi possesses is her greatest weapon. We must use it wisely.”

Dany could hardly believe the blind priest. “Even greater than my dragons?”

“Yes,” he had smiled. “Make the Masters dream of you, make them sleep restless nights, and you will win a thousand battles before you need to fight a single one.”

In the days that passed, Dany realized how wise that counsel was. Kraznys had been hiding petitions for her to visit the Great Pyramids of the noble families of the city, but No-Eyes and Tareoh had ways of retrieving them for her. Dinners upon pleasure barges, tours through the pyramids, guests of honor at exhibitions in the Blood Pits – the Masters of Astapor were laying all at her feet. Dany would have refused them all, of course, and she made sure to send messengers relaying her polite refusals.

That made the entire city thirsty for her. _Let them be parched. A man in the desert with an empty bottle is more likely to compromise._ She had a thirst of her own, but none outside of her circle of captains and advisors need know about it. Let the Masters think that Daenerys Targaryen only cared for war and conquest. Let her be the mysterious beauty. It will be easier if they think she is a simple girl.

Only Ser Jorah looked at her from the other end of the litter. She would be walking among the freeborn of Astapor, those who looked down upon anyone without the blood of the Harpy. No-Eyes had given her wise counsel, and her bloodriders the most devout of her captains, and Tareoh Neh Kheluk gave her capable men of sword and spear. But it was only Ser Jorah she brought with her to this gathering of slavers.

No-Eyes told her that she must think as the Masters do. _But need I act as them as well?_ The blind one could have helped Dany see through the false faces of the Masters, and perhaps even scare them a little. Her bloodriders would have put more than a little fear into the Harpies, with their hulking forms and glimmering arakhs. And perhaps Tareoh’s sly words would have caught more than a number of the Masters off guard. _But how much of that would be lost in translation?_

At the end of the day, it was Ser Jorah she chose to accompany her. In some ways, it was out of fear for Daemon that she kept her bloodriders in Kraznys’ pyramid. And No-Eyes had a way of seeing things before they happened. If any meant to hurt her son, he would know it. But as she drew closer to the Hrahser estate, Dany wished she had brought more than just Ser Jorah.

Dany could not say that he was loyal. Not after how he abandoned her. He was honest with her of his first wife, but his eyes also said that he loved his queen as well. _If I let him, he would push me away from Jon._ But he was her knight, the first of her Queensguard, and will be the commander of her armies. There was a gruff wisdom in him, Dany had to give Jorah that much, foresight that only came from suffered years.

Perhaps that was what Dany needed, more than sound counsel. Advice that was laced with suspicion. Jorah Mormont trusted no man but Jorah Mormont. He would consider every word spoken by the Masters of Astapor three times over.

“You look unwell, Ser Jorah,” she said sweetly. It was no tease – there was a slight paleness to his tanned skin.

The Northern knight did his best to adjust to the heaves of the litter. “I would prefer to be carried by horses than by men, Your Grace.” Dany felt the same. There were so many curses she could throw on the memory of Khal Drogo…but she would always thank him for Silver. There were few things more wonderful than feeling the wind slip through your hair as one would ride through the plains and hills of the world. One was Jon at her side; the other was looking upon the son they had made together.

“Well, we should develop a taste of it, you and I. This won’t be the last time we are lifted by litter. Unless you would prefer an ass.”

Jorah Mormont snorted at that. “Let the Masters keep their donkeys. Everything they do seem to be wrong.”

“Their tokars, riding donkeys instead of horses…and keeping men in chains. It’s all wrong. All of it.”

“Then why are we here, Your Grace? There are sellsword companies we could enlist.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You know well why. Do not press the issue again, Ser.”

He lowered his head. “I care only for the safety of you and your son.” _And hope that I will fall into your arms, when Jon Snow is denied me?_ The craftiest thing the knight had ever done was propose that Dany act that she knew none of the Valyrian tongue. In all other respects he was as easy to read as a book. That was good. _My father was killed by the Kingslayer. I will not be so easily fooled._

The litter was brought to the ground with a soft thud. Dany felt a moment’s dizziness, as she reoriented herself. She became too accustomed to the sways of the litter. _Men are not nearly as graceful as horses._ But a litter has more prestige than someone astride a mount, and so Dany played the game. She swept the curtains aside, and saw that one of the man had bent his knees and cupped his hands. There were no steps on the litter.

Dany took a breath, and put as little weight into her steps as she could as she descended onto the earth.

She gave no mind to the wheezes of Kraznys mo Nakloz as he stepped off from his donkey. She gave more heed to the stifled grunts of the slaves that had to bear his massive weight. His younger brother, Astrazys mo Nakloz was more graceful. It helped that he was thin and slender, while Kraznys the Elder was nothing but fat and sweat. No slaves bent their backs for Missandei of Naath – she carefully extended her leg from litter to the bricked road.

The Hrasher manse was before her. It was not as large as the pyramid that Kraznys and his brother claimed as home, but by Dany’s reckoning it was an impressive sight. The iron gates were open wide, and the mercenary guard were dressed not in leather and spears but silk robes and ceremonial swords. Vines crawled up the wall, and Dany could see that golden flowers bloomed from them. The walls themselves were practically glowing with the light of silk lanterns.

“Ask the Western whore,” Kraznys mo Nakloz spat, “if she intends to look at the pitiful manse all night, or if she plans on actually going to the party?”

When the question was rendered, Dany smiled and turn towards Ser Jorah. “Coming, Ser?” He gave a gruff nod, and with hands tied behind his back, gracefully followed. They were greeted with the sweet music of flute and strings, and giggles and chitters. Dany saw men and woman with red-black hair spiked and curled, their arms and shoulder wrapped in tokars. Slaves crowned in a ring of flowers served roasted dog and spiced brain on gilded bowls and silver plates.

Dany looked, from one end of the pink hall to the other. She saw curtains and pillars that were wrapped in silk, a harpy carved from marble that poured wine into a river, naked dancers with figs around their thighs, fat Masters smiling stiffly with thin ones. _Where are the bloodsworne? Where is the Black Hound? Where is Jon?_

Somehow, Ser Jorah knew what she was thinking. Her face must have showed something. “If Jon Snow is here, we will find him,” he whispered.

She gave only a stiff nod. “Missandei, tell Masters Kraznys and Astrazys that I am interested in meeting with the other masters here.”

Kraznys mo Nakloz grunted when his translator relayed the message. “Then tell the whore to follow. Surely her savage eyes can see they are all gazing on her.”

Indeed, she could. The various masters all kept one eye on her, as they talked and laughed. Some did more than keep a single eye, and made no secret of which Targaryen Queen that held their attention. _Let them look._ The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms should hold no fear of being observed.

She followed after the Nakloz brothers. To say that they walked would be an understatement. The tokar that was wrapped around their waist, arm and shoulder impeded almost all movement. It reminded Dany of ducks, how their legs wobbled. Dany had a silver tokar lined with golden tassels. The tokar complimented her hair and flesh, she thought, but she hated what it did to her. It made her like them. The idea that Dany had to act like the Masters, in any way, however small, put a sickness in her stomach.

But it would be easier to slither amongst them if they thought her an ally of them. _Let the Masters think me a friend, when I am a dragon with wings spread wide._

“That must be the Master of this estate,” Ser Jorah whispered. Dany saw that there was a man wrapped in a red and gold tokar, and nearly every guest spoke a word or two to him. He was looking at Daenerys, and there was little kindness in his eyes.

“If he is, he is no friend.” She followed behind Kraznys. Dany straightened the tokar in her hand. She struggled to keep it balanced. “Smiles, Ser Jorah. Can’t give him more reason to hate us than we already have.”

He gave her a furrowed look. “We have only just arrived. What have we done to make him an enemy?”

“I am Queen,” she huffed. “That may be reason enough. Come on, Ser; let’s meet with Terzac vo Hrasher.”

Kraznys was the first to kiss him on the cheek. “Terzac,” he said with all smiles, “it has been too long.”

“It need not be,” said the young man by the Master’s side. There was a smile on his comely face. The way he had trimmed his beard…it reminded her of Viserys. Before Viserys became cruel, before he would slap and pull at her hair and say she was ugly. It was only in his final years that Viserys kept his face shaved and soft. “Your family’s pyramid is not so far from our humble manse.”

“It’s an hour’s ride,” Astrazys insisted.

The young man nodded his head. “An hour’s ride for a day’s pleasure seems a fair trade. Come, Astrazys. Let me kiss your cheek.” Astrazys mo Nakloz allowed him the pleasure, and then the younger Nakloz kissed Terzac vo Hrasher. “And this must be Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Slave,” growled Kraznys, “tell the savage princess that she speaks to Terzac vo Hrasher, and his son Alezek.”

“The Good Master says that you have the pleasure of speaking with Terzac vo Hrasher, the Blooded Master of this estate, and his son, Alezek vo Hrasher, whose bloodsworne are the most honored and gloried in all of Astapor.”

“Tell the Blooded Master that I am…pleased to be his guest.”

Terzac vo Hrasher’s eyes showed that he was anything but pleased. Fortunately, it was his son that spoke next. “Let Daenerys Targaryen know that the splendors of our home are open to her.”

“I am interested in his father’s bloodsworne. I hear they are the greatest in all the city.”

“That they are,” he said with a smile. “Shall we show you them?”

“Yes,” she said quicker than she meant. Ser Jorah gave a light cough behind her. “Tell Alezek vo Hrasher I would like that very much.” That was a bit slower and more careful, she thought. Spoken as if she was just curious, rather than desperate to find Jon.

Master Hrasher’s son gave her a smile. “Then let her take my hand, and let me lead the way.” He looked at Ser Jorah. “Ask her who this is.”

“He is Ser Jorah Mormont, of Bear Island.” Her knight straightened himself. “He is the first of my Queensguard, and my advisor.”

Alezek surveyed the knight. “Oh,” he said with a soft tug on her arm. Dany did not know how she was supposed to both hold onto her tokar and hold Alezek’s arm, but she followed. She could feel the tokar begin to slip down her waist, so he walked a bit more stiffly. If Alezek vo Hrasher noticed, he did not seem to mind.

They were lined across the wall. Men with scars, men with braids, black of hair and silver, dark eyes and blue eyes, all on display like some kind of gallery. _These are not portraits. They are men._ But the Masters that walked past did not seem to agree. They touched them, trailed their scars, pinched their cheeks…and the more bold felt between their legs.

And then she saw him, and she did not breathe.

His hair was cut, and it was hard to recognize him at first. His thick whiskers were gone, and only small bristles trailed his chin. There were scars on him, but there were _always_ scars on him. Ever since the first day she met, when he was dragged into Illyrio Mopatis’ manse half alive, there were scars and wounds. But it was Jon. He was changed, but it was him. Jon Snow of Winterfell, who was Lord Eddard Stark’s son.

His face turned, and his gray eyes went wide, and his jaw went stiff. Dany’s heart was like a thunder strike in her chest. She chewed on her lip.

Alezek vo Hrasher said something, but Dany couldn’t hear. “The Master Terzac would like to know if what you see pleases you.”

Dany cleared her throat. “Yes. Very much so. Can I…go closer?”

“Of course,” Alezek vo Hrasher said. “Tell her she can do more, if she likes.”

“Ask him what he means.”

“I mean, the pleasures of our house are yours to experience. There are chambers available.”

“Chambers? What does he mean by that?”

“Tell her she can fuck any of our bloodsworne, at her pleasure. If they were any other slave, they would have their throats cut for the honor of bedding a Master. But bloodsworne…well, they are above slaves. The seed of the bloodsworne have swelled in many freeborn. It is no real surprise. They are the Bladed Conciliator given flesh and form. In the arena, they are gods. Who would not want to bear the child of a god, even if he was divine for only a few moments?”

“Oh,” was all she could say when the words were transcribed. Alezek vo Hrasher asked if she would like to fuck one of them, and Dany numbly said that she would. She was allowed to inspect them, and Dany had to make a show of it. It was only then that she could hear soft moans of pleasure arriving in faint echoes beyond.

She looked at a man that must have hailed from the Summer Islands. “Tell her to never mind that one,” cautioned Alezek vo Hrasher. “The only thing that Alyxqo likes is a cock in his ass. His beloved, Qalentos is…occupied. She could have him, if she insists, but it would be a dull affair.” She strolled down past a massive man that was covered in scars, including one that raced down his face. “You caught our Titan at a fortunate time. Many of our guests wish to experience the strength of Yarkaz for themselves. Few can see it so close, and so personally.”

“Ah,” she said, searching for words. “I was hoping for someone more…” Her eyes surveyed the Titan. “My size.”

“The Westerosi said she would prefer someone smaller.”

“Oh,” Alezek said, surprised. “I wonder, would she like someone from her homeland? Why not the Black Hound? We took him from the Abyss, she should know. She may have even seen him. He was a sellsword for her husband, before he was brought in chains to us by the Company of the Cat. The man should have died in the Abyss, but he strived to lived. And we would not let such potential go to waste. So we bought him, and trained him, and elevated him to be bloodsworne. Tell her to look at his scars, especially the one on his arm. He has survived so many battles. He will survive so many more, I imagine. He is a fierce fighter, this Andal.” He waited for Missandei to relay the words. “And a ferocious lover, I imagine. This one?”

Dany’s fingers trailed his chest. “This one,” she said. “Tell him this one.”

 

**THE WOLF IN THE PITS**

 

She stood before him.

Jon knew he saw a mirage, a delusion of his mind. She was wrapped in fine silks and a tokar that shrouded her form. Hair of silver, lilac eyes, pale flesh. It looked like her. Her breasts were more full than how Jon remembered them, but of course they were. He was a man, with a man’s desires, and his mind would want to dream that.  

He was too desperate, too much a fool, too much the bastard that wanted what he could never have, not even when he saw with his own eyes her death.

But she was standing before him, her eyes looking and pleading, asking, begging him to say something. To do something. Her lips twitched with impatience, in so much the same way that her lips would whenever Jon hesitated with an answer. Whenever she would stand before him naked, her belly swelling with the life of their son, demanding that he take her now or be done with it.

Jon wondered what one should do with a ghost. Can one desire a ghost? He thought of the Night’s King and his frozen queen, and how he gave up his soul when he gave her his seed.

The candles of the bedding chamber burned brightly, and the copper and gold beat off her skin. “Jon.” She spoke his name like she _always_ had. She spoke with her voice. “Jon,” she said again, this time with more impatience. Oh, that was Dany, always wanting, always desiring, always impatient.

Jon walked towards her, and thought to reach out for her, but at the last moment he hesitated. He made his way for the soft mattress of the bed, and grabbed a pillow.

He threw it at her face.

It bounced off her and fell to the floor, and Daenerys Targaryen snorted.  “What was that?”

Jon stared at her. “It’s you. I was…” Words failed him, reason abandoned him, and all Jon could do was look at her. Beneath the beautiful silk dress he could see hints of scars on her belly. Her silver and golden hair was braided with care and respect, and it rolled off her shoulders. A golden pin rose from the tumbles of her hair. “You’re alive.”

“I’m alive,” she said. Then she wrapped him in a loving embrace. Her cheek rested on his chest, and Jon found himself dipping his fingers into her hair, tightening against her side. She smelled of perfume and spices and the sands of the city. “You’re alive.”

Jon didn’t know if he should say something or cry or ask a question or do all of the same. Dumbfounded, he just held her instead. His thumb rolled circles into her shoulder. It had been so long since he had touched her or felt her skin graze against his. Had he ever known it? They were always in danger, and could never embrace as they wanted to, could hold each other as tenderly as they should. Even now, they could not do what they want.

Home was so far away from them.

“How?” The question escaped from him a breath.

Jon felt the soft breaths on her chest. Silence shrouded them both, and Jon thought to disregard the question, to say that it didn’t matter, none of it did save that she lived and breathed and he held her. But then she spoke. “There was fire.” She hesitated. “And…Jon, I didn’t burn. Our son didn’t burn.”

He felt something claw up our throat. “Our son?”

She looked at him, and her purple eyes were beaming. “Daemon. His name is Daemon.”

Jon didn’t know what he should say. He didn’t know if there was anything he could say. A thousand questions rolled through his mind. What does he look like? Is he healthy? What type of sounds does he make? Does he take after you? Does he take after me? “Is he safe?” Jon finally asked.

Dany nodded. “He is. He is surrounded by my khalasar and the Rams. Ghost is keeping his two red eyes on him at all times.”

Jon blinked. “Your khalasar?”

“Those that followed me after I emerged from the fires, with our son and the dragons.”

“And Ghost lives? Tareoh and his Lhazareen still live? I would have thought—” Jon caught himself. “You said dragons.” She nodded. “ _Dragons_.”

“Yes, Jon. The sigil of my house.”

Jon blinked. “I need a drink.” He made his way towards a cabinet that had a decanter. He didn’t know what type of wine or how it tasted and he didn’t care. He poured the wine into a glass with a golden lip and drained it at once. Dany observed him, amused. “Dragons. _How_?”

She leaned uncomfortably against one of the pillars of the bed. “I don’t know. There was fire, and there was smoke, and all I could think was…no, not like this. Doreah was with me, and all I could remember were her sobs and her coughs. She never stopped coughing, Jon, but I never did. Not once. Gods know I couldn’t see in front of me, but I never felt the smoke storm down my throat. And I heard…voices, in the fire. Talking to me, speaking to me, telling me that I was going to die. But I refused them. That’s when I felt the first crack. I didn’t hear the eggs open Jon, I felt them tear away at…at everything. Like the entire world was made just to incubate them, and they were ripping through the forces that made up the world. I don’t know how long I was in there for but, I was untouched.” She afforded herself a smile. “Save for my hair. You’re disappointed by that, I’m sure.”

“It will grow.” He placed down the glass, but he did not tear his sight from her. “What happened to Doreah?”

“She died.” Dany released a shudder. “I walked over her bones Jon, while I clutched Daemon to my breast, and as the dragons clung to my flesh. I walked over what remained of her. I…I…” She rubbed her arms. “I think I traded her life for mine own. For Daemon. For the dragons.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I am _alive_ and she is _dead_ , and I don’t know what that means, or how that makes sense. I don’t understand how she could be dead, when she risked so much for our happiness, and I keep on telling myself that I cannot look back, but…I keep seeing her. I murdered her, Jon.”

“No.” His voice had an edge to it, but he could not allow Daenerys to blame yourself. “You would never do that.”

“Jon, you cannot know—”

He fingers placed a tender grip on her shoulder. “I _do_. Doreah did not die, not by your hand. You would never do that. Not for your own sake.”

“And what for our son’s sake?” That gave Jon pause. What would he do to protect Daenerys and their son? He was willing to throw his own life away if it had meant Khal Drogo perished. How much further would he go now that his son was brought out into the world? He thought of Robb and Father. Would he turn on them if it meant protecting his family? Shall the dragon need to rise again, to protect itself from the stag? Jon prayed he would never need to answer that question.

He kissed Dany on the crown of her head, taking in a tender whiff of the oils in her hair. “Doreah is dead. We cannot think on how or the why of it.” He thumbed her cheek. “Why are you here, Dany?”

“For you.”

“That is too dangerous, by far. When you approached the city—”

She strolled across the room towards the decanter. The silver tokar followed behind her, the crimson fringe dancing atop the carpet. She poured herself a glass of the golden wine. “I took what precautions I could.” Jon watched her sip, but she did not turn to face him. “There was as time for patience, for safety for healing. That time passed, and now I must act.” She turned then, and Jon saw the violet fires in her eyes. “I will not leave you to die, Jon Snow.”

“Dany—”

“I will _not_ ,” and Jon knew then there was no hope for a discussion. He almost heard the iron tones of Lady Catelyn in Dany. “I will save you.” She licked her lips before she sipped again from the golden wine. “I will save them all.”

Jon did not understand her meaning. “All?” _Could she mean the other Dothraki that Bloodbeard had enslaved?_ They were all dead, Jon was certain. Astapor held a week of games to celebrate the victory over Khal Drogo, and many of the captured Dothraki were fed to lions and beasts, or were crucified, or crushed beneath wheels; and all the while the audience cheered. “I have seen them on the streets. I saw naked girls being sold. I saw men carry fat masters on their backs. I heard the screams of boys as they were made into eunuchs.”

Jon loved her for that. The unflinching courage, the refusal to not turn away from injustice. In the blood pits, Jon had forgotten what it had meant to do the right thing. Kill to survive so he could one day kill Bloodbeard. But Dany never forgot. But now was not the time to do the right thing. All Jon could see was the danger that hung over his family. “You can’t save them all, Dany. How many number your khalasar? A hundred riders?”

“I won’t save them with my khalasar?” She smiled behind her glass cup. “I’ll save them with the Unsullied.”

“With the Unsullied?” They were the pride of Astapor. The Good Masters would not give them up cheaply. “How would you buy them? With what gold?”

“Not with gold.” There was a flare in her eyes. “With a dragon.”

Jon stood there as if he was winded. Dany must have expected him to say something, but he could not think. _What should I say?_ “You would sell a dragon? The world thought the dragons were gone forever. And now—”

“I do what must be done. I will not leave Astapor without an army. I will not leave without you, and I will not leave while children are in chains. How can you ask me to do otherwise?”

“Our son—”

“Will know his father.” She stood there with confidence. Her words had not a hint of hesitation, and Jon knew that there would be no convincing her of otherwise, despite the madness of it all. “And he will know that his mother did not turn her back when it would have been convenient. I will not lose my dragon.”

“You just said—”

“Is every conqueror not a thief in the night, at one point or another? And how much weight does an agreement have, when it involves the trading of flesh and blood?” She smiled. “They will not have my dragon for long.”

It dawned on Jon just what she was saying. “That is dangerous.”

“Of course it is dangerous Jon. I am a Targaryen, and you have chosen to make a child with one. Danger will always be a part of our lives, even after I have taken the Iron Throne.” Jon would have spoken, but Dany put down her glass and walked to him. There was an unyielding gaze in her eyes. _She cannot be denied. Not in this. Our son is at risk, her own life is at risk, and she will not turn from the path._ “Jon, who am I to you?”

There were a thousand answers to that, but he could only bring himself to say one. “The woman I love.”

“Good,” she smiled. “Because I feel the same of you. But I am also the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and as your queen I have a single command. _Live_ , Jon Snow. You shall not perish in the blood pits. Master Terzac vo Hrasher shall not profit off of your life. Endure, so that I can hold you in my arms again.”

He had been fighting to do just that already, but that was before Daenerys. His words were a bloody oath to vengeance, but Daenerys was stealing a promise from him. Dany already knew the answer. She laid a hand on his cheek. “Good. “Now, Jon,” she said with a smile that was almost shy, “the masters thought that I was stealing you for a good fuck.” Her fingers were pinching at the collars of his shirt. “I don’t think we should disappoint.”

It did not take much for her to drag him to the bed. It took even less for him to slip the soft silk from her. As soon as he stole the kiss, the whole world began to melt. And by the time she had sheathed herself on him, his fingers digging into her sides, and his ears filled with her sighs and moans, all the world broke apart until there was only he and her.

 

**THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE**

 

Terzac was trying to decide what it was about Tarazere mos Douqou that disgusted him so. It was not that the man never commissioned Bloodsworne for his games. That just showed the man was cowardly, favoring the safer displays such as crucifixions or slaves being fed to lions and bears, but never mind that. It finally dawned on him, as Tarazere’s whiskers flapped about as the man blubbered his thin lips.

His eyes were like a pig. They were small and sunken, and all that Terzac could focus on. _How does he see? How can he read? How does he not bump into every wall in his manse? Can he even recognize one slave from the next?_ Terzac prayed to the gods that whatever the man was saying was without consequence, because he would not hear a word of it.

Perhaps Tarazere oinked whenever he spoke. That could explain why his words were lost on Terzac’s ears. The man had eyes like a pig. Why not a pig’s tongue? Gods, even his nose looked like a pig’s, with it being so far and wide. His head was beating. He had too much of the wine, too much of the food. He needed every bit of it, he knew. But it was still too much. Guests were free to gorge themselves, but a master in his own home was upheld to a higher standard.

At least, they were supposed to be. But Terzac vo Hrasher had other thoughts on his mind. _The Targaryen is in my home._ It was no surprise that she had chosen Jon to bed. The Andal blood in him must have excited her. The other masters were content to dot upon Daenerys Targaryen’s every wish and whim…and Terzac had to dance right alongside them. The thought sickened him.

She should have been dragged through the streets, not raised atop a litter. Was Khal Drogo so easily forgotten? Going by the way the Freeborn had looked with wonder in their eyes, they must have. If the tales were true, she had brought dragons to Astaopor. Dragons! Did Old Ghis mean nothing to them? Oh, no doubt some would say how Old Ghis was a great empire while the Valyrians were fucking sheep. And that much was true, a small consolation. But those sheep fuckers eventually became dragon riders, and they turned the greatest empire in the world into dust and ash.

And now, the last of their line was heralded through the doors of Astapor. She was a beggar dressed in silk and bracelets of silk, but one would think she was a queen. _They would put a crown on her head if they could. Perhaps even with the heads of dragons smelted atop it._ If Terzac was a weaker man, he would have thrown his glad to the ground.

But Terzac vo Hrahser was not a weak man, and he would suffer the insult of her presence. He could tolerate such things. He could tolerate much worse.

Such as the squeaks of Tarazere mos Douqou. Terzac took another polite sip from his cup. Tarezere was blathering something, and Terzac responded with a polite nod and an “Mmhmm”. From the corner of his eye, Terzac saw Alezek speaking with…someone. That put almost as much fear in him as the thought of Daenerys Targaryen swelling with the seed of one of his Bloodsworne. “Excuse me,” he half muttered. Tarazere blabbered some sort of understanding.

“Ah, Father,” his son said with half a turn. “I was just entertaining Paraszys sol Nierhols.” The Master that was the reasoning behind this smiled behind Terzac’s boy. The Master of the Nierhols estate was a tall man, with a tall neck and a broad face. His hair were red and black curls that were controlled with experienced hands. His dark eyes had a piercing quality that truly only showed when he smiled. And his lips did curl, and he did show his teeth, but Paraszys sol Nierhols did not smile.

“Terzac.” The man’s words were curt and short. He took Terzac’s hands into a firm grip. It was the tightest vice he had ever experienced. “Thank you for this invitation.”

 _You are the reason I have this party to begin with. You sent Astrazys to have your demands rendered._ “Your games have always been a boon to my house. It is my pleasure to have you here.”

The edges of Paraszys’ lips curled. “And the pleasures abound me. Your house has always done well by me. I knew your father when I was a young man.”

Terzac remembered how well Father knew Paraszys sol Nierhols. He had said something about Paraszys having been weaned on venom. “And our relationship was brought fortune on us both. How many have come to your games because of my bloodsworne?”

The smile of Paraszys was chilling. “And how much gold has come into your coffers because of my patronage? We have a good relationship. A glorified depiction of the whore and the master, but still, I respect you Terzac. You understand a man’s place in the world. Boundaries.”

“My son understands such measures,” Terzac said. “We came to an agreement.”

“We did. And so long as the night ends as promised, you will have your place in my games. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Master Terzac.” He watched Paraszys walk away, one hand nimbly holding the folds of his tokar. It was fringed with silver tassels, the height of station in Astapor. Tiny balls of fury rolled in Terzac’s belly. _Damn him._

Terzac looked across the floor. He recognized Qalzine ter Hasmnes, congregating around Ioznas qor Hamaras and Orzolmas gin Yerrak. All of them were Spiced Masters, having earned their wealth from the import of trade. Or perhaps it was the work of their fathers, or their father’s fathers, or something like that. _Reaping the bounty of those that came before._ The Green Grace Nozzara ber Illiare was speaking with other masters as she delicately supped on a glass of wine. Terzac couldn’t recognize the vintage so far away, and he couldn’t properly say who the masters were, but Freeborn without a doubt. The Green Grace would not think of exchanging words with a Blooded or Spiced Master. _But more than willing to dine beneath the roof of one._

It was difficult to think about, the cost of this lavishness. He could not balk, not on any of it. A cheap master was a worthless one, and that would be the death of him. _I must throw my wealth around as if I was Freeborn._ Of course, his income only matched half of the poorest Freeborn house, but what did the truth matter?

Alezek approached him, a small smile on his face, and with a half empty glass held in his nimble fingers. His loved these gathering of masters, he always did, whereas there was nothing Terzac detested more. Let him sit in the arena, witness glorious battle between bloodsworne, and he never felt more at home. But surrounded by the many masters of Astapor, and he felt a stranger in his own house. “All goes well?”

“Well enough,” his son smiled. “Najzarys kun Garjkan is due a child.”

“No surprise with that one. That one is always buying a new pleasure slave.”

“From his wife,” Alezek said.

Terzac turned on his son. “Isn’t Azarea just past her fiftieth year?” Alezek shrugged. “Wonders will never cease. How did you hear of this?”

His son smiled, and plucked a grape from a passing plate. “One of the slaves overheard it.” He tore through the grape, and his lips glistened from the juices.

Terzac frowned. “You should not be spying on our guests in our own home.”

“What better reason to have a party if not to learn a thing or two?” His son smiled as a viper would, and that pleased Terzac not at all. _A blooded master should be honest and blunt. Leave the schemes to the Freeborn._ “We are giving them much already.”

“It’s an honor to host the masters.” The lie sounded false even on his tongue, and his son saw right through it.

“An honor,” his son scoffed. “They take from us wine and meat, take and take. Perhaps we should carve out our own blood as well. Then again, that _is_ how the night will end, isn’t it?”

It was a good thing that they were at the far side of the hall. None could see Terzac grabbing Alezek by his shirt and bringing him low. “Listen to me. _Listen._ This is done by your hand. Your avarice, your pride! The masters knew what you wanted, and they had us do this because of _you_.”

Alezek’s dark eyes did not falter. “I overstepped _nothing_.”

“You overstepped everything, my son. We give up this bloody sacrifice, we carve our own heart, so that the masters will allow us the privilege of _living_ in this city. What do you think would happen if we resisted?”

“The name of Hrasher—”

“Is _nothing_ compared to the will of the Freeborn. You think yourself the first blooded master to want something more? Don’t be a fool, Alezek. You are but one vermin that has been squashed beneath heel. Remember that all this is because of _you_.” Terzac released him. “Now, where are Kraznys and Astrazys?”

His son fixed the folds of his robe. “Astrazys has taken Alyxqo to bed.”

“Oh,” Terzac said. “And the elder?”

“Somewhere drinking our reserves, I’m sure. That one always had an appetite.” A slave came by with a bowl of sweetened dog brain. Terzac plucked from the dish a small strand, and slurped it into his mouth.

“Is the Targaryen still with Jon?”

“I imagine so,” Alezek smiled. “She was utterly bewitched by him at first sight. If it wasn’t for her tokar, she would have ran to the bed.” He licked at his lips. “Others have been asking of him as well.”

“Then we should give him to them.”

“No,” his boy said. “I think not. Find some excuse to keep him away. Let the disappointment simmer.”

“And why would we do that? We let our guests toy with the bloodsworne to spread their favor. Perhaps even garner a sponsorship, or two.”

“Because, denying them will just fuel their imaginations. Let them dream of the mysterious Andal that survived the Abyss. They’ll get a small taste of him during tonight’s exhibition. When we partake in the games, they will flood the pits to get a look at him. To see the Hound with sword in hand, his flesh covered in the blood of his enemies. And, they will be so jealous of Daenerys Targaryen. Wouldn’t you love that, Father, to see her brought low? Even just a little?”

 _My son knows me too well._ “Fine. But I leave such deceptions to you.” Terzac drank from his cup, and found no sweetness in it. “There were once days, where we blooded masters did not have play such games. No half lies, no toying with emotions and ideas. We created the bloodsworne, and they made glory in the Pits, and the gods bestowed their favor on the city. When did it all become confused?”

“Father,” Alezek said with a hand on his shoulder, “if such a day existed, it was probably before the Valyrians came. And even then, I’m sure our ancestors wished for the days when life was simple. Now excuse me; I have some deceptions to create.” His son flew from him, and Terzac thought that his place was among the Masters. His son was all smiles, sweet words and cunning eye. The gods were cruel. They gave Alezek to Terzac, who was a Blooded Master. If Terzac was the son of a Freeborn, he would have found his place within the Circle.

But his blood was not that of the Harpy, but of those devoted to the Flayed Twins. His place was in the Blood Pits, not as a member of the Circle. The gods had deemed Alezek to be his son, not anyone else’s. He would need to accept that, in the years to come. _May the gods humble him, before he shames himself in an election._

The conversations spilled into each other. Terzac spoke with this Freeborn Master and that, and a few Blooded ones accepted Terzac’s invitation. Ghezakz po Yieklaz was more slug than man, but Terzac only had to breathe on him to get his Bloodsworne into Ghezakz’s games. And it was only when Terzac would attend these feasts that he would realize just how many were named after Grazdan the Great. He spoke with this Grazdan, and that Grazdan, and the Grazdan that was the son of Grazdan, who was not the same Grazdan as the Grazdan from _that_ family. _Why have we not outlawed the name of Grazdan? Surely we sons of Ghis have more imagination that that._ If he discovered that half the men under his roof were named Grazdan, Terzac would not have been surprised.

Then Terzac heard a dozen small gasps around him, and turned to see that Daenerys Targaryen had returned to grace his house with her opulence. Her cheeks were flushed, and she wobbled with the tokar wrapped around her form. The knight whispered some words into her ear, and at that Daenerys turned and whispered some viciously back. Once he bowed his head and whispered something else – an apology, to be sure – the Targaryen turned and strolled back onto the floor. One would think that this gathering of masters was held in her honor.

_No, this is all for Paraszys’ pleasure. Not yours, Targaryen. If it was my pleasure, I would fling you from the roof, and sleep easy._

Many masters herded around her, greeting her with false courtesies that her primitive ears could not understand. Kraznys’ scribe translated every word with care, avoiding the insults and transforming them into sweet courtesies. The girl was intelligent. Terzac gave some consideration on how much of a price Kraznys would demand for her, and if reasonable, he would purchase her.

The knight was a curiosity. A man of few words, that one. Not like he had anything worth saying, being the Andal barbarian that he was. But he always kept one eye on the Targaryen, and the other on everything else around him. Few things would slip past him. He was an imposing figure, and even without a sword, Terzac would not want to risk his fury.

Terzac was surprised that Daenerys brought none of her Dothraki barbarians. He considered that a blessing. He knew full well of their undying hunger, and he would not wish to have any Dothraki whelps to be birthed under his roof. The Dothraki made for poor slaves, being rebellious as they are, so the commission would not even be worth the effort.

“She is quite the spectacle, the last Targaryen.” Terzac turned, and saw Astrazys. The man’s hair was slightly disheveled. Alyxqo had returned to the wall, to be showcased along with all of the other bloodsworne. “We can’t seem to keep our eyes off her.”

“I wish the right ones were on her.” Terzac sipped from his summer wine. “Did you enjoy yourself.”

Astrazys shrugged. “A bit. Your Summer Islander is a bit too…burly for my tastes. A fine enough course.”

“You could choose another…”

But Astrazys waved him off. “No, no, I have feasted enough on your table. But I understand the festivities are only just beginning.”

“You were Paraszys’ messenger.”

“I wish I wasn’t, truly. But the price was clear. I thought if it came from my lips…”

“That it would strike no harder a blow?” Terzac tightened his free hand into a fist at his side. It was a tough elixir to swallow. Not even the sweet taste of the wine could wash away the bitterness that clawed at his throat. “We must all learn our place. And I assume I shall not be compensated?”

“Won’t entry in Paraszys’ week of games be enough? He is not without compromises, not beyond understanding. You could have a place in the Primus.”

The Primus? The opening and closing spectacle for the games, where the most money was surely to be spent. “That would be generous.”

“Beyond generous. A reward for understanding one’s place in the world.”

“My son—”

“Will be forgiven from this night forward, all memories of his ambition forgotten. So long as he forgets all hope of joining the Circle. He is a blooded master; his place is in the blood pits.”

For a moment, Terzac felt only relief. But worry started to claw through him. Alezek was not the one to forget such an affront. Ambition was too much a part of his son. Terzac would need to work twice as hard to snuff out those fires…but would that be enough? He was an old man yet, and he grew older with every passing year. A year would come when he would be no more, and Alezek would be free to do as he willed.

Even if that meant bringing the ruin of his home around him.

 “Terzac,” Kraznys began, “the night is growing dark. Best for us to get this messy business out of the way, do you not agree?”

Terzac looked at the small puddle of wine at the bottom of his cup. He wished there was more of it. “Yes. Let’s be done with it.” He placed the cup on a table, and sent the thunders of his clap storming through the hall.

 

**THE WOLF IN THE PITS**

 

Daenerys was watching him, and that was a foolish thing to do. Choosing him was a foolish thing to do. Coming to this house was a foolish, as was remaining in Astapor, concocting a plan to steal the Unsullied, not making her way to the Free Cities. It was all foolish, stupid, dangerous...and precisely what Daenerys would do. Try as he might, Jon could not imagine Daenerys as the type of person that would not attempt to rescue him, to procure an army, to earn her place in the world behind a fiery sword.

Her boldness was part of why he loved her, but Jon wished she would be less bold and more cautious and sensible. He would have taken a life enslaved in a heartbeat if It meant Daenerys and Daemon were safe.

Daemon. Jon could not get the name out of his head. That was the name of the Rogue Prince, and the name of a half dozen Blackfyre pretenders. A Valyrian name, a Targaryen name, a name for the blood of Aegon. It was taken from Daeron the Dragon, the Conqueror of Dorne. _He held Dorne for a single summer_ , his uncle would remind Jon.

Jon heard the flutists tooting some sort of melody, far down the other side of the room. Drummers were beating some kind of erratic beat. It all seemed to put Jon on edge. Father hated music, although he always seemed pleased whenever Sansa would play the bells. He suspected that was more because it was Sansa playing the music, rather than the music itself. Jon was beginning to suspect why; the base rhythm was the same thing, over and over again, and meandering beat that was bordering on the moronic.

_Gods, I could go simple just by listening to this._

The Allashant had been very clear. “You will present yourself at the wall, and you will not move unless it would please one of the guests. Heads high, shoulders straight. Puff out your chests, put your scars on display.” Jon afforded himself to lean a few moments, mostly whenever the Allashant wasn’t paying close attention. But those moments were fleeting and becoming all the more rare as the night edged on.

Jorah Mormont said something to Daenerys, something too low for Jon to hear beneath the music. Whatever he said, it was enough for Daenerys to stop feigning that she wasn’t keeping one eye on Jon and gave Mormont all of her attention. She whipped on him, and said something. Jon could see her brows were furrowed; Jorah said something she did not like. But Mormont stood his ground, unflinching.

Jon had more than a good idea what Mormont said. Something along the lines of “You should not have slept with Jon Snow. This farce of ours is thin enough without you seeking out the bastard.” He would probably not refer to Jon as a bastard – not in the presence of Daenerys. Mormont was a kinslayer, not a fool. 

He didn’t have to think hard on what Daenerys said. Something along the lines of “I did not act foolish, Ser. Jon was all but presented to me. They practically begged me to bed him.” That would be an exaggeration by leagues and leagues; he hoped that Dany didn’t delude herself that much.

Still, she was showcased the bloodsworne, with one goal in mind. Dany had to pick someone, and seeing her in the arms of any of the others…Jon feared what he would have done to them on the morrow if that happened. Perhaps they expected her to choose the one Andal bloodsworne.

Perhaps, Daenerys both got what she wanted and kept up the veil. Jon felt a smirk spread at his lips.

“I knew she would be good, but I didn’t think she would be that good.”

“Gods, Iorwen. Shut it. Still as statues, you remember what the Alashant said.”

Iorwen was leaning in close, as loose as a leaf. His eyes were glimmering with mischief, and if the Allashant saw him, then Iorwen would be due for hell and a half on the morrow. “Nonsense. The night is growing old, and the Allashant is not that concerned with us. Look, he is speaking with Yarkaz at something.”

Jon looked, and saw Yarkaz was in some conversation with the Allashant. Neither seemed to be enjoying it. “Looks like business.”

“Looks like,” Iorwen nodded. “So don’t worry about the Allashant. You think the Master has anything planned?”

Jon shrugged. “He doesn’t seem like the type to end the night with a commotion.”

“But his _guests_ would, and that is just as important.”

Jon narrowed his eyes. “How so?”

“Think. Why is the Master going through all this? Not that it matters to us.”

“Except it does,” Jon realized. “If the Master profits, so do we. In a way.”

“Paraszys’ week of games. They are famous within the city. More money spent in a week than in a year. They come all across Slaver’s Bay to partake in the festivities.”

“And if we get in, all the more wealth for our purses. Enough—”

“To perhaps buy back our freedom.” Iorwen’s smile was glowing, and his eyes blazed with opportunity. “So, you see, there is reason to want the Master to be so opulent. After all, we can profit. _If_ the Master finds favor with Paraszys sol Nierhols, and only if he gets us into the Primus.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “The Primus?”

“Gods, you are new to the Bay. A week of games is not so rare a thing. Usually reserved for when elections come around, to earn the votes of the people with festivities, or when something needs to be celebrated.” There was much celebration in the streets when Khal Drogo was defeated, Jon remembered. “The Primus is the opening and closing ceremony for such events. And that is when the most coin is spread. Usually.”

“So, assuming we get invited to these week of games…”

“And assuming we get into the Primus. Lots of ifs and maybes and perhaps and how-abouts. But if the stars should align, and we come out with our heads intact, we just may have a much heavier purse to our names. Granted, the Master will take the lion’s share.”

Jon frowned at that. “He will?”

“Of course. You’re forgetting yourself Andal. We’re _slaves_. We were bought to profit the Master. Your pretty looks will only get you so far. Well, perhaps balls deep into—”

“Enough,” Jon growled.

“Fair enough. A man knows his boundaries. Still, even with the Master taking most of our winnings, it will be substantial.”

“Assuming we survive.”

“I assume nothing. What did I tell you, Andal? I am not dying on—”

Jon heard a clap, and suddenly the entire chamber was silenced. The various masters ceased whatever meandering conversations they were having, and all of the slaves turned to face their master. For a moment, Terzac vo Hrasher held himself high. Jon almost wanted to say that the master was savoring the silence.

Then he coughed. “This has been an evening of bounties.” The words were softer than they should have been, at first, but as Terzac spoke, his voice grew louder, more confident, and it was not long before they echoed with a firm clarity. “The dog has been well spliced, the brains tendered, the spices sweet, and the company fine! None finer in all of creation!”  There was a roar of approval, but Jon could see Alezek across the room. He looked at his father, absent the confident smile he usually wore on his face. “But we did come here solely for such. The house of Hrasher is esteemed for our Bloodsworne! Many of you have seen their prowess in the Blood Pits, bringing glory and sacrifice to the Flayed Twins! But that was from afar. How many of you can claim to see their strength on display, in such an intimate setting?”

Many of the masters were eager, their eyes shining with impatience, and the rare few that drank from their cups smiled behind the glass. “Then let them be on display! I present an exhibition!” The crowd gave calm cheers, bringing hand to hand in a controlled and delicate applause. “You will see my bloodsworne test each other’s mettle. With blunted blades, of course.” There were a few moans of protest, but to that the master of the house only smiled. “If you want blood, you must come to the pits.”

Two by two they were summoned, each bloodsworne given a dull weapon that was as sharp as a bundle of sticks. Qalentos was the first, paired against the Dothraki Agoro. It was a quick contest, and Agoro was on his back muttering out a Dothraki curse in almost no time. The man had just earned his brand – he would get better. Or he would end up dead in the Blood Pits.

Alyxqo was next, against Qaleros. The Pentoshi favored the sword, but Alyxqo knew the spear better than any other man, save his lover Qalentos. Jon would not know who the victor would be if those two took to contest. Regardless, Qaleros was on his back after just a few swift strikes, his chest covered in bright pink spots.

And on and on it, bloodsworne chosen by the Allashant to fight against each other. Most of them were not even good contests, with many of the newly branded were paired against veterans of the pits. Men that had faced a hundred men and lived faced against some that had never even stepped into the arena. “Curious, isn’t it?”

Jon turned towards Iorwen. “You noticed it as well.”

“Of course,” Iorwen shrugged. “And so do the guests.” The masters and their mistresses were once thrilled at the sight of seeing bloodsworne clash on the polished floor, but the allure faded with each contest. It ended all too quickly; not even the best of bloodsworne can feign a challenge when none existed. “Why you think the Master is doing this?”

Jon shrugged. He kept one eye on Daenerys at all times, not missing that she was doing the same. Both he and her had their parts to play, and both had to pretend that they did not care for another, did not love, that Jon had a son named Daemon that awaited his liberation. But Jon could not keep from looking at her, and there was no doubt that same allure arrested Dany. “How would I know the motivations of a master? I just want to be free and done with all these games. So I’ll give a good showing, and hope to earn my place in the Primus.”

“You know,” Iorwen said, “we will probably going against each other. About damn time. I owe you for that broken nose.”

Jon frowned. “I didn’t break your nose. It was Alasro’s. And I seem to recall you tried to _drown_ me.”

“Well, it seemed rather appropriate at the time. Still, I am owed a real fight with you, Andal. And not one of those half pissed mocks. I mean a real contest. Don’t you dare hold back. I don’t care if the masters are watching. Hell, the Master would probably prefer it. Save this entire farce from being a real bore.”

Jon couldn’t refuse him. He had faced men in Yieklaz’s Pit, but they were not a real contest. He did not like killing. Nothing felt so wrong as ending a life just for the sake of entertainment…but there was a rush that Jon got from fencing in the yard, whether it be in Winterfell or the grassy plains around Vaes Sash, or here in the Hrasher manse. “Alright then. I won’t hold back. Not like I ever would.”

Iorwen smiled, and there was a spark in his dark eyes. “Never expected you would. But I have to make sure.”

The challenges went on, bloodsworne were summoned. Some provided better contest than the rest, but Jon couldn’t help but notice the look on Terzac or Alezek’s face. A shade of displeasure, no matter the result, despite the cheers and smiles from the crowd. _They must be nervous_. But of what?

Jon watched as the Titan of Astapor faced off against Tastro, a slave from the Summer Isles. He was almost a man, just beyond his eighteenth year, but had earned his brand when he fought against Alyxqo and won. Jon remembered how Alynxqo had embraced him, and whispered something in their language.

Jon did not miss that Yarkaz looked back on Alyxqo before he put the finishing blow. Yarkaz was given a wooden weapon – an attempt to even the scales – but it did no matter. The sword shattered when Yarkaz brought it down on Tastro’s shoulder. There was a lingering silence before the crowd cheered in approval, and Yarkaz helped Tastro to his feet.

“One last bout,” Terzac vo Hrasher announced, “one final display of strength. You have all heard whispers of his name. The Andal that fought for Khal Drogo, who was so filled with the will to live that he survived the Abyss. On the barbaric shores he was named Jon, but we have a more apt name for him. The Black Hound! And for his opponent, the slave of a hundred masters, he that had withstood a hundred brands. Iorwen!”

Iorwen gave him a friendly slap on the chest, and ushered him forward. Grinning, Jon took bold steps. He saw Daenerys; she whispered nothing, but her violet eyes were focused on him. Jon could read a dozen messages in those eyes. _I love you. I am here. I’m proud of what we’ve done. I love you._ But one screamed out louder than all the rest: _Don’t die._

And Jon could only think; _How can I die, here and now?_

A sword was fitted into his hand. It was so dull that could see the chipped off edge of the blade. Iorwen was given a blade that was just as dull, but it was smaller. Harder to hit, thinner to strike against, swifter. Iorwen would need to get close, but Jon would have to be faster. Good odds.

Ser Rodrik had told him to know your enemies. If you could do that, the fight was almost won. Jon knew Iorwen, had seen him fight a dozen times. But Iorwen could say the same of him. What would Ser Rodrik say to an enemy that knew you? The knight probably didn’t have an answer to that.

Well, Jon would by the party’s end.

The Allashant roared out for them to begin, but Jon didn’t hear him.

Iorwen lunged forward, blunted point seeking out Jon’s heart. He blocked the strike easily enough, but it wasn’t meant to cut Jon down. _Are you testing me?_ Iorwen’s grin was wide, and there was a hot breath beneath his laugh. “Come on!” he said, and Jon had to comply. The swords clanged as they thrusted upon each other.

He could feel the sweat slipping down his wrist. His palm was throbbing against the rough hilt of the blade. Iorwen wouldn’t know it, but he was dancing, his legs pushing further and further away, while his eyes edged him on.

Jon felt the rush as their swords met again, sliding and screeching against each other. Jon grunted against the weight of Iorwen pushing down on him. That was the Tyroshi’s strength, how he would bull rush into every move he made. It was likely to get him killed someday…or would it? He had survived how many years in the blood pits? Jon would need to ask him someday, when he wasn’t aiming his sword for Iorwen’s bold mouth.

He could have sworn he saw sparks burst across the ruined edge of their swords. Iorwen came upon him again and again, treating his weapon more like a club than a sword. _Gods, Iorwen it’s a blade, not a hammer._ But maybe he had the right of it; not chance he was going to cut through flesh with the sorry condition his blade was in.

Jon twisted from an overhead strike, and that left Iorwen exposed. He slapped him with his free hand, and that sent Iorwen stumbling, his feet struggling to find ground. _Told you would get yourself killed someday._ Jon was on him, and in moments his sword was at Iorwen’s throat. The Tyroshi’s legs were sprawled wide, and sweat dripped down his face. His dark hair was almost wet. Every breath he took was hot and heavy, but he was grinning. “Damn it Andal. You win, gods damn you.”

He helped Iorwen to his feet, and they were surrounded in the applause from the crowd. Jon looked around and saw all the smiles, and a few masters were whispering into each other’s ears. He could see Daenerys herded behind several rows of men with their oiled beards and wrapped in their tokars. Her eyes were smiling, and for him alone.

It seemed so absurd. When the sun rose, Jon thought she was dead, and that he had to live to avenge her. Now he knew that he had to live, simply to return to her and their son.

The applause died, and Jon turned and saw Terzac vo Hrasher had raised his hands, summoning silence. There was something uncomfortable that clawed at Jon’s heart. There was a smile on his face, but the way his lips curled…it seemed so forced, void of pride and warmth. “A valiant showing. None of you can say that these bloodsworne did not display their valor today. House Hrasher has always been known for their men that earned glory and immortality within the blood pits. Their names are eternal. But so is shame, and what would be said of my house if I allowed my guests to witness battle between bloodsworne…when blood was not shed?”

A heartbeat roared against his chest, and he knew what was said before he saw the victorious bloodsworne summoned from the walls, and the defeated dragged. Into the hands of the victors were placed good, strong, sharp, blinding steel, while the defeated were granted steel with ruined, broken, dull, flat edges. “Please give your space,” Terzac said. “I do not wish innocent lives to be lost or harmed. True steel is at play.”

 _All these men are innocent._ One of the guards in silk approached with a sword, and the heavy blade was ushered into his hands. He did not even feel the notches in the hilt. A numbness had overwhelmed him; he more heard than felt the clattering of his shaking jaw.

He looked in Iorwen’s brown eyes, and they were trembling as the realization dawned on them both.

A scream ripped Jon out of the silence. He did not dare to look. There was another, and another. Some begged, others didn’t even live long enough to let out anything but a death gurgle. There were a few pitiful screeches of steel.

Jon had not moved. He did not raise his sword. “What are you doing, Andal?”

“I won’t.”

“You won’t what? Kill me?” Iorwen looked around him, taking in the applause of the masters and the demands for blood. He let out a huff. “Jon, you have no choice.”

“That’s not true. There is always a choice.” He could not see her violet eyes, but he knew that they were cast in horror.

“Not today.” He picked up his sword, all ruined and mangled. “You are going to kill me, Andal.”

“No, Iorwen, you can’t—”

The screams were dying. The guards were hovering closer, their hands lingering above the golden pommels of their swords. “Oh, I can. I told you Jon, I am not going to die in the arena. Either you are going to kill me, or I will kill you!”

Jon had never seen Iorwen move so quick.  Jon barely managed to bring the sword up to block the blow. Orange sparks slithered along the edge of the swords. Iorwen came onto him again and again, hammering against Jon. _I can’t kill him. I can’t kill him._ But it was all Jon could do to keep Iorwen from hacking his head off.

“Fight me!”

“Iorwen!”

“I said _fight me_! Or I am going to kill you Andal!” To prove his point, Iorwen swung at him with such force that he would have split Jon’s head in two, blunted blade or not. Jon weaved away from the blow, and the next, and the next. Iorwen brought his sword down low, but Jon had had enough of being the one that was pushed. He brought his blade up, and the steels screeched across each other. Jon pushed against Iorwen, and he felt the full weight of the man against him.

It shouldn’t be this way. Iorwen shouldn’t have to die. Jon shouldn’t _have_ to kill him. How could this be fair? Iorwen had fought well, every day. He died because of a fucking trick. Jon could see the brands on his arm. They were glistening beneath his sweat. He had survived a dozen masters…and he was killed now because of what? _You are supposed to survive._

Behind Iorwen, beyond all the crowded masters that looked on with silent anticipation, there was Daenerys. She dared not say anything, dare not cry anything out, but her eyes were wide and pleading. _As your queen, I command you not to die._

Jon could see the guards slowly circle them, hands lingering ever closer to their swords.

Iorwen’s eyes were on Jon, brown and wet and furious. Those were Iorwen’s eyes, the eyes of a man that was the first of laugh, and the first to stand up. They were Iorwen’s eyes, the eyes of a man that survived when the masters said “You must die”. He had said he would never die in the Blood Pits. “I will die on my own feet, Andal.”

Moments ago, the blade was sure in Jon’s hands. Now it was felt as heavy as a warhammer. He did not want to kill Iorwen. He wanted to cut through the masters, to make them taste death for treating men like cattle and sport. He wanted to kiss Daenerys on the lips. He wanted to hold his son in his arms. His name was Daemon. No man should be a slave. He did not want to kill Iorwen.

He let out a cry and pushed Iorwen back. He lashed out like a crescent, and found the black taste of meat and bone. Iorwen’s blade clangored on the ground, and he fell. Jon rushed to him, his heart roaring inside of his chest. He couldn’t hear anything but the bloody gurgles of Iorwen. He cradled his head on his arm, and he swept the dark hair away from his face.

Iorwen said nothing. For once, he was out of words. But his eyes were on Jon’s, dark on gray, Tyroshi to Northman. His teeth were a red, fiery and dark. Jon thought he heard a word, a noise emerge forth from his lungs, but it was all a noise, a gurgle, a choke. Jon found himself speaking Iorwen’s name. “Iorwen,” he said in something above a whisper.

Then Iorwen stopped shaking, the light faded from his eyes, and the fingers that were reaching for Jon’s cheek fell to the bloody ground. A small crimson pool gathered at Jon’s feet, sinking into his knees.

_I told you, Andal. I’m not dying in the blood pits._

Jon felt a hand on his shoulder. “Andal,” Horeah said. He shook Jon, trying to free him from Iorwen. Jon wouldn’t move. He could only focus on Iorwen’s eyes, those eyes that were so bright and free despite how dark and brown they were. “Jon. Jon. He’s gone.”

Jon couldn’t say anything. He wanted to say something. Father would have said something, something like how he had died free, or how he had never cowed before the masters, never allowed them to control him. But the words never came. His tongue was as hard as iron in his mouth. He felt Saethor pull him up. Blood dripped from Jon’s fingers, pooled at his bare feet. He may have slipped if not for Horeah and Saethor’s steady hands.

All around him, the masters were cheering and laughing. Some had a solemn look on their faces, but they were smiling despite it all.

Terzac and his son turned, and gave some quiet orders.

Beyond them all was Daenerys Targaryen. Her fists were clenched, and her eyes were a violet fire.

Jon was guided away.

 


	18. Fathers and Sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Iorwen's murder. The sons of Tywin make their way. Sansa comes up with a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read on Chaos Inferred: https://wp.me/P7Obn3-58

**XVII**

**FATHERS AND SONS**

**THE WOLF IN THE PITS**

 

His corpse was pale, and cold, and white. There was a boldness in his eyes, when Iorwen was alive, a sharp flare that smiled when he would. And Iorwen would smile as wide as Robb or Rickon would, a wild confidence that suited the man that survived a dozen masters. But in death, his lips would not even twist into a grin. The gash in his neck was dark and purple, and it seemed as if all had color seeped out from that wound. There was a grayness to Iorwen now, a color that was so unfitting to the man.

 _I did not kill this man._ If Dany were here, she would be saying such. She would do everything she could to take away his guilt. But Daenerys Targaryen had no place consoling a slave. That would raise too many questions. _So she leaves me, isolates me, to protect us._

Jon could not protect Iorwen. How could he protect his son?

“It is a hard thing, to look upon a friend who was once filled with life.” Jon turned and saw Yarkaz standing in the mouth of the door. “Do not consider this a failure, Andal.”

It was not his failure. It was Jon’s sword that cut Iorwen down, but it was not his choice. How could he have a choice, when Master Terzac offered him life or death? That was not a choice. He had promised Daenerys he would live. “It was not my failure. I was not the one that ended his life.” Terzac vo Hrahser demanded that his bloodsworne be cut down. His words, and the guilt should be on him. _But I was his sword, the instrument of his will._

“Then why linger?” His soft steps seemed to echo in the silence. The flames let out a deep orange glow that stretched across the stone walls. “You are a poor liar, Andal. One look on your face and I know.”

“Am I some book to you?” Jon did not turn to face him. The light had passed out from Iorwen’s eyes, but Jon could not turn away from Iorwen. His hair was black and dark; how long until the color of life would fade from that as well?  

“You are a man.” The Titan’s voice was softer than Jon had ever heard it. “You wanted to save him. But you are mistaken in that you think it was your choice. That was the Master’s, and his alone.”

“Should I make my demands of him?”

“Only if you welcome death. And I don’t think you do. You enjoyed your time with the Targaryen woman too much, I think.”

Jon whipped. “And what do you know of what I enjoy?”

Yarkaz smiled. “You were not quiet.” Jon found himself biting his lip then, although why he could not say. Dany was not quiet in their lovemaking. She had to force a thumb into her mouth on the Dothraki Sea, but she made no show of that in the bed. “And you are not the kind of man to discard a friend’s sacrifice like that.”

“He was not my friend. He was –“

“Your brother, a sword at your side, an underling? He was more than that. Lie to yourself, if it makes you feel better.” The scars twisted down Yarkaz’s face as he glared. “But not to me.”

Jon was getting tired of him. “What do you want, Yarkaz?”

“To talk.”

“Of what?”

“Of _you_. You are not the first to have seen a brother die before them.”

“At a party?” There was a sharp edge to his words. “Surrounded by smiles and laughter? Neither of us were prepared to kill the other.”

“I know,” Yarkaz said. Jon could see a flicker of hesitation in the Titan’s eyes. “It was up to the Alashant to…decide who would fight whom.”

Jon ground his teeth. “You _knew_ ,” he said, the words spoken in a hot breath. “Before it happened. I saw you and the Alashant—”

“He consulted me, yes. We had to reduce the damage, to keep the very best from the slaughter. It was not a choice done lightly. All that money the Master invested into those bloodsworne would be lost. But those that had survived a hundred days in the arena were better off than those that had not spilled even a drop of blood. It was not an easy choice, Andal. But the choice was made.”

“So, Iorwen and I—”

“The issue was…it was numbers.” The Titan of Astapor paused, taking in the gravity of what he was about to say. “There were less bloodsworne that we wanted to preserve than those that were…that could be afforded to be killed. Would you have preferred Alyxqo against Qalentos, Haethor against Saethor, myself against Alasro? Somewhere there would be…a gamble. If I had any freedom in this, I never would have set you up against Iorwen. Never. You have both proven yourselves a dozen times by now to be worthy of the mark.” The Titan’s fingers had tightened into a fist, and his face was scowling at every word. “You’re right. Bloodsworne should not be so easily slaughtered like this. But our end comes, one way or another, at the point of a sword. Do you know how I got these scars?”

At first, Jon thought it was a joke. But Yarkaz’s dark eyes were focused on Jon, and there was an intensity in them that Jon had never seen before. But despite his confession, Jon could not get the image of Iorwen’s dying breaths out of his mind. “By not being quick enough.”

Yarkaz looked at Jon, trying to understand if he heard right. Then he laughed. “That’s the truth of it. Or part of it. There was one fighter in the pits, that boasted he allowed a cut from every opponent.”

“What happened to him?”

His eyes glowed. “What do you think? I pierced his heart with a spear.”

Jon found himself smiling. “What are you here for, Yarkaz, truly? You came for more than just words.”

“To see where you stood.”

“I am right here.”

“Are you now?” Yarkaz narrowed his eyes. “You saw Iorwen throw himself onto your blade, all because of the Master’s command. Never mind that it was the Tyroshi’s choice.”

“He did not have a choice. It was either he died alone…or we died together.”

“He died at his own hands. Not at his choosing, and the manner of it…that was not right. But his own hands did the deed. You need to see that.”

“I have to see that?” Jon moved closer to Yarkaz. “By whose demands? By Master Terzac’s? I need to see the wisdom of his words, wisdom that is above and beyond me just because he is free, and I am not?”

Yarkaz tightened his fingers into a fist. “Because he is the master of this house.”

“And that is the only reason Iorwen is dead. You said that Iorwen didn’t have a choice. Iorwen shouldn’t have been forced to make that choice in the first place. There was no _glory_ or _honor_ in what he did. What was so noble or glorious about what he died for?”

“Is there no worth in your life?”

Jon took a step back. “What?”

“You said there was no honor or glory in what Iorwen did. I am asking, does your life have no worth? Is your life so insignificant that Iorwen died for nothing?”

“He should not have died. Not like that.”

“But he died, and that was how he met his fate. We don’t get to decide how we travel into the darkness, Jon. The day I was made titan, not just of this house, but of the entire city, I was the one survivor among forty. All those men from a dozen different Blooded Houses entered Nierhols’ Pit, and only I left. Covered in blood and more bruises than you could count, but alive. I could hear the cheers of the crowds in my bones. Echoing, beating, coursing through me. I thought I was born again in that bloodbath. The old Yarkaz had died, and I was reborn in the deaths of my enemies, and the love of the people. I would not know for years, but that day sealed my fate.” Yarkaz tapped above his breast, where Jon could see a small gray scar. His fingers trailed down to his heart. “There was some fool of a boy. Had probably just earned his brand. Had no business being there. But he had a spear, and when you are surrounded like that…it is too easy to lose all traces of yourself. His spear found me. Didn’t kill me, and I don’t remember if I killed him or not. But a piece of the head broke off, a small shard. Not enough to make me bleed out, but small enough to kill me. Every year it goes closer and closer, reaching its final destination and the end of me.” Yarkaz pounded a fist over his heart.

An uncomfortable silence grew between them. Jon had never heard someone speak of something like this. Not to him, certainly, not to Lord Stark’s bastard. “How long?” he found himself asking.

Yarkaz gave a small shrug. “Who can say? The physicians certainly can’t. Before you could almost feel it. For a few months, I could make out the crooked shape of the thing beneath my flesh. Now it is invisible, a silent and inevitable death. A day will come when it will pierce my heart, and I will fall to the ground. And that will be the end of Yarkaz of Astapor, the Titan of this house. No doubt a new titan shall be named.”

“Hopefully, I would never know him. I will be free of this place long before that happens.”

“Perhaps you know him already.”

Yarkaz couldn’t have been more plain if he tried. “Maybe he is a fool.”

“I think not. You have been here for only a few months, and a bloodsworne for a great deal less. You have fought only in the pits of lesser, and yet you have earned the respect of all. Iorwen and the others wanted to kill you, remember? Have you forgotten the glare that Alasro would give you? Much has changed since then, Andal. What is it that you think a Titan does?”

“Kills to survive so he can do it all over again.”

“A great deal more than that,” Yarkaz said. “He does not instruct and command. That is the place of the Alashant. But he demands respect – he has to. And fear as well. Do you not think there is a small trace of fear whenever they see me?”

“And you think they fear me?”

“How not? When the Master first brought you here, you were nothing. What worth was Jon of Westeros to Astapor? Just another name to be scrapped off a master’s sandal. But now they whisper it. You are the Black Hound now. What else are you capable of? Do you think any of the others could have bested me in the Proving?”

“I had three cuts on you.”

“Not a man here could have gotten one. What do you think that makes you, Jon? Do you honestly think that they see you _just_ as their sworn brother? Gods, Jon you survived the Abyss. No one is supposed to survive that place, and you did it, with your mind in one piece even.”

“And you think that makes me capable of being titan after you?”

“They fear you,” Yarkaz nodded. “And they respect you. You are capable with that sword, although I won’t call you a master with it. But that will change with time. You are a notch better than a moon past, and by the turning of the next moon you will be just a little bit better. Can’t say that about many others here – they are great, but they will stay that way. The Alashant’s training elevated them to a point, but they will not ascend beyond that. But you are different, I think.”

“Assuming I survive it all.” There was a bitter edge to his words. “What if I am the next man that our master commands to die?”

“That won’t happen. Iorwen was…” For the first time, Jon felt Yarkaz was uncomfortable. The Titan looked down on Iorwen, as if the corpse would give him the answer. “Believe me when I say, Master Terzac will not kill another man in these walls.”

There was a slight tremble in his voice. His fingers clawed into the woods of the table, Jon saw. “How are you so sure?”

“Terzac vo Hrasher is, above else, a man of his word. You are not so ignorant, Andal. We all saw how Paraszys sol Nierhols twisted our Master.”

“He could have said no.”

“I do not believe so. Andal, there is a place for you here. I have no doubt that you will earn your freedom –“

“No.”

For a moment, Yarkaz was still. “Jon, listen to me—“

“I said no, Yarkaz.” _Daenerys is alive. My son is alive._ “Perhaps before, but not now. Not ever. I won’t die a slave. You want me to fight for Terzac? After Iorwen? No. And I won’t fight for his glory either. Not like I will find anything like that in the Pits. I am fighting to survive, Yarkaz. The rest of you can lust for death. I am going to live.”

“You should go,” Yarkaz said in a low tone. Jon brushed past him, but when Yarkaz called out for him, Jon turned. The Titan’s eyes were dark. “I should have let them kill you in the baths. If I knew the darkness you would bring to our home, I would have murdered you myself.”

“A day past, I would have thought the same.” He thought of Daenerys then, and he smiled. “But now, I am thankful. For that much, you have my gratitude.”

Jon marched down the halls of clay and stone, leaving the Alashant and Iorwen’s corpse behind him. _This is not my home._ The house of Hrahser was everything that Winterfell was not. Astapor was so hot that Jon would not even feel the sweat on his flesh. There were no slaves in Winterfell, and Lord Stark upheld the King’s justice. What justice was there in this city of Masters, where the only thing the Masters answered to were themselves?

 _Not even Winterfell is home. Not now._ Perhaps before the _Ice Wife_ , before the King’s Feast, before Pentos. Daenerys was alive. Jon had tasted her, felt her silver hair glide over his fingers. Her lips were warm and full of life. _Daenerys lives_. She survived the fires. Jon didn’t know how…how could anyone survive through that? He remembered the screams. Beyond all else, Jon would never forget that sound. But Daenerys was alive.

His son lived. _Daemon. His name is Daemon._  

Jon found himself laughing then. He fell against the wall, the jagged stones scratching against his shoulder. He almost didn’t feel it. His son was alive – was else mattered? Did _anything_ have meaning besides that? He had never even asked what his son looked like. Could a man have ever been so stupid as Jon Snow? _You thought your son had died in fire and smoke, and you don’t even bother to ask if he has Dany’s eyes?_

Silver of hair, dark of hair, grey eyes, purple eyed…gods, he could have had horns and wings for all Jon cared. _My boy lives._

Was Ghost alive as well? Jon remembered the dream of ash. That had to be it. Dany, Daemon, No-Eyes and Ser Jorah, all had survived Bloodbeard. Why could it not have been Ghost? Thinking back on it now, Jon should have known. That dream was far too real. He remembered the taste of ash in his mouth. They were in a place of gray and white, where ash rolled off the dunes like sand in a desert wind. Where had Daenerys gone?

 _Too many questions._ It seemed that was all Jon had done since he left home – ask and react. Dany was the one to decide that Jon would be hers, the one to determine the course of how Khal Drogo would die. Jon followed in her stead, but Father would never do such a thing. He would never have put such a burden on Lady Catelyn. Lord Stark would have borne the weight of all his decisions.

What kind of man was Jon, that he allowed Dany to do as much as she did? _It shouldn’t be her responsibility. It should be me that is the protector._

Jon heard the heavy drums of boots. “Andal.” Jon turned and saw one of the mercenaries, dressed in frills and silk. Bells and silver string hung from the curved hilt of his sword. Jon had no doubt that if a true enemy were to strike the house of Hrasher, the mercenaries would crumble. “You are asked for.”

“Did Master Terzac not ask enough of me?”

The mercenary narrowed his eyes behind his silk. “Who is the slave? Speak back again and I’ll make sure the Master hears of this. Consider yourself fortunate. It is the son, not the father, that demands to see you.”

“Alezek?”

“None other. Come, Hound, he is more patient than his father. But not by much. Quickly now.”

He was led into the steams of the bath. Arekor was there, with white towels folded over his strong arm. Where one of the Masters could be found, Arekor was never far behind. Jon wondered when he had the time to train and struggle in the yards, when he was constantly in the Masters’ shadows. _Were you both flimsy and mutated, when you were first bought?_

Terzac was waist deep in the waters. His cheeks were flushed and his hair were strands of black and red that waved around his ears. “There you are, Andal.”

“I came.”

“Good.” He nodded towards the mercenary. “You can go…whatever your name is.” The guard gave a flash of a scowl before he turned and left Jon in the steams. “Come into the baths, Jon. You need to wash yourself.”

“I have,” Jon said.

“Only by filth that eyes can see. Come into the baths.” His voice brokered no argument. A slave that was as naked as his master came to collect Jon’s clothes. He took a few careful steps toward the bath, and he felt the heat with his toes. Then he stepped in, allowing the heat to wash over him. He could not keep himself from sighing. “Andal, tell me. How would you assess the son of Terzac vo Hrasher?”

Jon gave him a look over. “Wet.”

For a moment, Alezek could only stare. A bald slave looked at Jon as if he had grown a second head. Then Alezek broke out in a smile and laughed. “I never knew you to be clever, Jon. Truly now. What do you think of me?”

“What would you have me say?”

“Whatever comes to mind.”

“Forgive me Master, but I’d rather not put my neck at risk.”

“Careful, Andal.” The Ghiscari’s eyes were sharp, but his lips curled sharper still. “You are respected in this house, but be careful.”

“Respected, am I?”

“Of course.” Alezek leaned forward, so that a slave could wash the suds from his back. “Few can say they escaped the Abyss with their soul intact. Fewer still can say they earned the heart of their companions. And none before you defeated a Titan. The Abyss is supposed to crush your soul. And yet, here you are. Alive and well, and showcasing your wit to your Master.

“Now, I have told you what I think of the Black Hound. How would you assess me?”

 _How should I assess you?_ Jon had more than a few words to say about Alezek vo Hrasher, his father who styled himself master, and all their fellows. He would damn them all, from the lowest in their small estates, to the Freeborn in their pyramids. No matter what they said, or what beliefs fueled them, they were slavers, forcing men and women who committed no sin but having been captured, into a life of servitude.

 _You are keeping me from my son._ But Alezek was not asking for a condemnation of his culture. “You are not your father.”

“In more ways than one,” he said with a sigh. His fingers circled the waters. “You,” he said to a naked woman, “wash the Andal. Do you know what we are?”

“Is that a trick?” Alezek’s face suggested that was not so. “You are a master. Or, you will be.”

“Once my father is dead. Those are the words you wanted to say.” He flicked his fingers across the waters. “But one master is not the same as the next. You realize that, oh the Narkoz’s for instance, are not considered the same as my family.”

“They are Freeborn,” Jon said.

“And my father and I are Blooded. They could trace their lineage back to Old Ghis. Their forebears were cousins twice or thrice times over to Grazdan the Great, or mayhaps one of his many concubines. But we Blooded Masters, we fought and bled our way to providence. The Blood Pits were our ladders of ascension. Gods, I am talking like how my father would. Do you ever catch yourself doing that, Andal?”

“Sometimes,” Jon said. “Half the time I think I am nothing like my father, and that was how it should be. My father wouldn’t have made the choices I made, and I would never want to walk down that road. But other times, I wish I knew what he would say. My life would be better for it, I think.”

“You would not be a slave, you mean.”

 _I would have defended Daenerys from Khal Drogo._ A year ago, Jon had dreamed a hundred times over of killing Khal Drogo and riding off with Daenerys. How many times had he pictured her wrapping her arms around him as they rode beneath the silver of the moon, her humming some song to a babe in a garden, a kiss from her that would taste sweeter than any of the berry tarts he had tasted in Winterfell. But those were all nothing but dreams, mad hopes, a fool’s prayer, before Dany decided she would have Jon before all others, before she grew with Daemon inside of her.

But those dreams became real...except for Dany and Daemon in the garden. A hope of a family, a fulfilled life. Jon would taste that one yet, he swore. If he could crush the house of Hrahser beneath his boots, then even better. “No. I would not be a slave. I would be free.”

“Freedom.” Alezek vo Hrasher rushed out the word and snorted out a harrumph at the end of it. “I should know what that is like, shouldn’t I? But my father would say otherwise. He wants me to remain as I am. A Blooded Master, kissing the toes of the Freeborn and the Spiced Masters. How is it that a son of Ghis that earned his honors through spiced meat and carpets has a place among the Circle, but one that is the son of titans is scorned? The titans are gods for a day, but their children have no place with the other masters?”

Alezek was looking at him, but Jon felt that he was also looking through him as well. _I am only here to listen. He needs ears to hear his cries._ “What would you have me know?”

“That what happened today was not…it should not have happened.” Alezek’s lips twisted into a scowl. “It is said that the Hrashers are better than the other Blooded. Our Bloodborne are the best in all of Astapor. More titans come from our house than any other, did you know that?” He pointed a finger at Jon. “By being bought by my father, you have more a chance at being a god than anyone else.”

 _I have no interest in being a god. I want to make my actions. A man should be free._ “A god for a day.”

Alezek splashed some water onto his neck. “Well, a demigod, if we are to be honest. But Iorwen should not have been killed. Not like that. Not in my fucking house!” He brought his fist down into the water. “It won’t happen again.”

“How can you be so –“

“It won’t happen again.” There was a fierceness in his voice. “Today, my father is only considered a Blooded Master. And tomorrow, my son will be considered the same. But he will be revered for it.”

“And how would you do that, Master?”

“By breaking from my father’s desires. By ignoring his protests and securing my own future.” Alezek waved to Arekor and rose from the baths, water dripping from his steamed cheeks. “I am done here. And so is the Andal. Dress him. You have a busy week ahead. We will be in Nierhols’ games, no doubt. At least we can say that something was bought for the slaughter of my bloodsworne.”

 

**A KNOWING MAN**

 

The Khaleesi was pacing around the flickering candles. No-Eyes could almost see her captains watching her in silence, their eyes of brown and blue and green tracing after her steps. There was a huff in her breath. That was the only hint that she was desperate to say something, but the words were lost on her. If No-Eyes was a younger man, the impatience would have gotten to him. It is so hard to be a man without eyes, because you cannot see. You can only make educated guesses, and what No-Eyes guessed was that she had found Jon.

Jon Snow was in her arms, and she could not free him.

“He is in danger.” She did not stop her pacing. Her bare feet brushed against one of the rugs.

A low and rumbling cough came from Jorah the Andal. “Majesty, we knew he was in danger, from the moment that Bloodbeard ensnared him.”

“You know damn well what I mean.” She surely shot him a glare, for Jorah took half a step back. “He is not safe in the Blood Pits. He is not safe in the halls of the Master. Terzac vo Hrasher transformed that party into a butcher’s shop! Jon would have died if he hadn’t killed that man.”

“And where is Jon Snow now?” Tareoh Neh Kheluk’s query was smooth, as if this was all humorous to him. No-Eyes imagined a cock of a smile on his lips. A smile that No-Eyes would love to rip off. _Be more solemn. Just a pinch would make you bearable._

“Alive,” said Jorah the Knight, “and still in the Astapori’s grip.”

“Then we know more than he does. If this Terzac vo Hrahser knew that his Jon was our Snow…well, he’d demand quite a pretty penny.”

“A penny we cannot afford,” No-Eyes said. He was leaning on a table or something that was wooden and smooth. He allowed his palms to lie flat across it. The wood absorbed the coolness in the air, and the table sent that up into his rough flesh. “We do not have much Khaleesi. Oh, some of the slaves in the bounds of our host would consider us rich indeed. But they would consider a flea dressed in lace extravagant. Everything we have must be set to purpose.”

“Jon is—“

“Alive,” No-Eyes said fiercely, “and would never insist you put his life ahead of anything else. Let us say you buy his freedom. What else would you have left to display the idea that we can buy all the Unsullied?” There was a cool silence. “Know that not a man here would see Jon Snow dead at a master’s hand, Khaleesi.” _Save one, whom you keep too close._ “Did you breach word to him?”

“I did.” There was a hint of a smile in her voice.

“Safely? Secretly?”

“I did.” There was more than a hint then.

“Then keep up the illusion. Kraznys mo Nakloz still wants to put his worm in you. Can he still keep that desperate hope?”

“That might be difficult,” grumbled Jorah of the Andals. “But not impossible.”

There was a tip tap that emerged from the Black Goat of Lhazar. “Can a man inquire in how this difficult balance is maintained?”

“No,” Daenerys said in a voice that permitted no arguments.

“So long as the balance is kept,” No-Eyes said, “that is all that matters. I think we can all trust the Khaleesi to be capable of maintaining that. For the sake of her child and her Khal.”

“They are not wed yet,” the Andal said quickly.

In the corner of the chambers, No-Eyes could hear one of the handmaids weaving a wheel of sticks, stones and horse hairs. A protective guard for the Khalakka from evil spirits. No-Eyes knew that many such aegis hung over Drogo’s crib, years upon years ago. “A Khaleesi needs her Khal,” Irri said with an air of wisdom. “One cannot rule long without the other.”

“And is Daemon not the son of the Khaleesi and Jon the Andal?” There was more than a satisfying spark in Jhiqui’s voice. “No wedding, that much was true. That can be fixed later, when the Jon Snow and the Khaleesi sit on the bones of the Masters.”

“No khal should be a slave,” Irri said. No-Eyes could hear the tightening of the knots becoming more fierce.

“The girls got you there,” proclaimed Jhogo. “By all rights, Jon is the Khaleesi’s Khal.”

“Enough of these talks of rituals,” the Khaleesi commanded. “No point to them so long as Jon is not with us.”

“Not to mention,” No-Eyes said, “we are under the roofs of our foes. I know that it is an unfamiliar concept to you bloodriders, but at least attempt to be cunning.”

There was a growl from Rakharo. “At least we have eyes to see the blades of our foes, Priest.”

“Enough,” commanded the Khaleesi. “Our enemies are outside this room. I won’t have more made here.” No-Eyes heard the awkward shuffling of feet. The floors creaked. “I have an idea of why Terzac vo Hrasher had his bloodsworne murdered. He wanted a place in Paraszys sol Nierhols’ games.”

“Games?” Aggo asked. “He would have a man murdered to partake in games?”

“These are not horse chases for children,” Tareoh explained. “The Astapori games are mean to be played in the Blood Pits. Men will die.”

“And children,” Jorah Mormont said in a hush. “I heard that sometimes men will place bets on which sickly child will be eaten by a beast first.”

The Khaleesi shivered. “I heard the same.” There was a heavy silence that followed, as all of the Khaleesi’s counsel considered what they had just learned. _A khalasar would leave the weak and the disabled behind, to be feasted upon by wild dogs and the elements. But no khal had ever made a sport out of it._ “So Jon will partake in these games?”

“Most likely, Your Grace,” Jorah Mormont in a calm wind. “Terzac vo Hrasher paid too heavy a price to not use all of his bloodsworne.”

“Kraznys will want me with him. No doubt he would want to spectate these…games.”

“And he would have the Mother of Dragons with him,” said Quaithe of the Shadows. No-Eyes did not hear her move or breathe. _How long have you been in this room?_ No-Eyes could not sense where she was; her feet did not brush against the carpets, her robe did not stir in the midnight wind, and her mask did not clank. “Your presence is too valuable to his desires for you to absent, Stormborn.”

“I summoned you an hour past,” the Khaleesi said. She said her protest well enough, but No-Eyes felt there was the slight sense of unease in her tone. It was a small enough thing.

“I came when needed. You are the Mother of Dragons. Remember what that means.”

“That I returned the dragons from stone. I know what I am.”

No-Eyes could imagine the smile behind Quiathe’s mask. “Then why are you afraid?” There was the clacking of wood. “Do your captains know what you intend?”

“Of course we do,” spat Jorah of Bear Island. “We have known for a week’s time.”

“But only fools would speak of it within these halls,” said Tareoh of the Lhazareen.

“Others still would practice caution,” said Jorah. “We walk on sinking sand.”

“Caution is a small line from cowardice,” said Quaithe of the Shadows. “What is your delay?”

“Kraznys.” No-Eyes could hear how she shifted in her steps, her dress ruffling with her movements. _Unease rules within you, Khaleesi._ “All he can talk of is Praznys’ games. His brother has pestered him about the Unsullied, and the fat man waves him off. I won’t be doing any business with him until the blood has dried from Praznys’ Pit.”

There was a snort from Tareoh Nah Khaluk. “And how long will these games last?”

“I heard a week,” Aggo said. “The Khaleesi had me send out men onto the streets, to listen and learn what we could.”

“And were you successful at your mission?” There was a sweetness to the Shadowbinder’s question, and No-Eyes did not like that at all.

There was a _harrumph_ from Aggo. If the man could have flicked the string of his bow in protest, he would. “It was the Khaleesi’s khalasar that scouted out the winesinks and alleys of the city. We Dothraki are not the spice-addled minds of the Astapori. So, yes, they were successful.”

If the Khaleesi was frustrated by her advisor putting her to question, she did not show it. “I sent out men and women onto the streets. Kraznys mo Nakloz would make me blind otherwise.”

“You are wise to do so,” said Quaithe. “Your brother was the shadow of a snake, and he kept you blind for years. This Kraznys is a perfumed slug. Tell me more of what you know.”

No-Eyes stomped his foot in protest. “Why should the Khaleesi tell you anything?”

“You should know as well as any man, No-Eyes of the Knowing Path. Voicing your knowledge makes all weaknesses in the foundation plain. The tongue reveals secrets that clings to the shadows of the mind. Is that not so?”

No-Eyes wished he had the arrogance to remain silent. “It is so,” he said.

“So, Stormborn, what do you know of Kraznys mo Nakloz? And we do not mean how he wants to fill you with his seed. A blind man can see that well enough.”

_Damn this woman. No, a demon of shade and shadows._

“He does not know how many of the Unsullied that I desire.”

“And just how many do you desire?”

“All of them,” she proudly said. “I cannot afford anything less. Not with my desires for the Iron Throne. The only thing that will protect my family are sworn swords.”

“Swords that cannot be bought,” said the Lhazareen.

“The price does not matter regardless.” Quaithe’s words were smooth as glass, and filled No-Eyes with a shiver. “What matters is that you have something that cannot be sold, and that which the Masters want beyond all else. The wars with Valyria have not been forgotten. The Harpy Sons may flutter all they wish about the age of their ancient empire, but in the recluses of their mind they remember their histories. You saw the ruins of Old Ghis. I brought you to that realm of ash and dust.”

“Yes,” the Khaleesi said. “A place of the dead. I know what I saw. I saw the conquests of Valyria. Of those that came before me.”

“And what are you, Khaleesi,” asked No-Eyes, “if not of Valyria?”

The Khaleesi spoke without hesitation. “I am not them.”

“Good,” Quaithe said, “you know that much at least. But tell me Stormborne, what of your dragons?”

“They are the biggest lure in all the world. They want my dragons.”

“They must not have them, Your Grace.” There was the slightest tremble of fear in Jorah Mormont’s voice. No-Eyes imagined only he could hear it. Well, he and the Shadowbinder. “Beyond all else, the dragons are yours. You are the blood of the dragon.”

“She is the blood of the dragon,” said Quaithe, “that much is true. But the dragons are hers? Ser Jorah, you speak of things you do not know. None own a dragon. A dragon chooses. Perhaps Daenerys will bond with one of the three, and she will be a true dragonlord. Perhaps they will remain feral to the end of their days. But even if Daenerys rides one of them, two shall remain. Remember Aegon and his sister-wives, Daenerys. They never shared a dragon between them.”

“Aegon’s son Maegor, and his grandson the first Visersys all rode Balerion,” said Jorah.

“But only after the man before him had died. And that Viserys never was chosen by another dragon. These dragons of yours, they are a treasure beyond price.”

“I know this.”

“They cannot be given away.”

“Get to the point, Quaithe.”

“You cannot give that which you do not own. Remember that, Stormborn. The day you bargain with the Masters, remember what is yours, and that which simply follows.”

For a moment, only the timid candle and the cool flutters of the curtains could be heard. Then there was a grunt from Rakharo. “This is gibberish and sorcerous nonsense. Khaleesi, Jon the Andal is a slave within these walls. Give me ten men, and I will save him for you. We know where he is. Let your Khalakka be united with his father and Khal.”

“No, Rakharo.” It seemed the Andal’s gruff pride had returned to his voice. There was no hesitation in him. “That would be brave, and the end of us. We know where Jon is, but getting to him is an issue. The streets twist and wind all over the city. It’s madness. Volantis makes more sense, and trust me, that city is a realm of chaos. If you manage to find the Hrasher estate, you will carve through their guards like cake. They are not the fine oiled spears of the Unsullied. But once you have Jon, where will you bring him.”

“To the Khaleesi, of course.”

 _Rakharo, you just fell for the Andal’s trap._ “To the Khaleesi. Here, beneath the pyramid of Kraznys mo Nakloz? The Master that is hosting us? Who is a friend Terzac vo Hrasher, whom Jon is enslaved to?”

“You would ask us to do nothing?” There was fire and pride in his voice. _And more than a pinch of impatience. A fine brew that can get you killed._

“Ser Jorah asks no such thing.” The Khaleesi’s voice took on an iron tone. “I ask you to wait, Rakharo.”

“Forgive me, Blood-of-my-Blood.” No-Eyes could almost see the Bloodrider bow his head in penance.

“I punish disloyalty, not desire to unite my son with his father. Jorah Mormont is right; as much as I would love to see Terzac vo Hrasher cut down, that would not bring us any closer to our goals here. Kraznys is using the excuse of the games to frustrate me. So I will do so in kind. After the second day, I will say I intend to leave.”

“Your Grace!” Jorah Mormont cried, “What do you mean? The Unsullied—“

“Are still our ambitions. The dragons follow me, not the whims of Kraznys mo Nakloz. He thinks he can toy with me. I will prove him otherwise. Negotiations for his Unsullied will begin long before Praznys is done with his games.”

 

**THE LADY OF WINTERFELL**

 

As Edmure read the letter, his face paled, and there was the slightest tremble in his hands. Their Lord Father was still abed in Riverrun, and Cat feared for his life. Edmure licked his lips. “Jaime Lannister has escaped.”

Catelyn looked at her brother as if he had grown a new hand. “How?”

Edmure shook his head. “I don’t know Cat. Wayn doesn’t say. There’s mention of a fire…”

“A fire?”

“One of the towers,” Edmure said, wiping sweat from his brow. “It was set ablaze. Norris, the gaoler of the dungeons, he was murdered. It had to be Lannister men. I had guards!”

There were still men loyal to the house of Lannister. It was all but ruined, after the Battle of the Hills and the Battle on the Blackwater, but there were still men who would want the Lannisters in Casterly Rock. Tywin Lannister held power, even in death. But by now the claims of Stannis Baratheon would have been spread across the Seven Kingdoms. Would the Westerland lords accept a man that has sired children with his sister as their king?

Perhaps they would.

“Edmure,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “What else is said?”

“There is a pursuit.”

“Naturally. By whom?”

“Ser Robin Ryger,” her brother said. There was a hint of apprehension in his voice, as if any other name but his own would be insufficient. “Utherdyes Wayn insists Jaime Lannister will be returned. On his honor, he says.”

“On his honor,” Cat sighed. “Do you have no idea how this happened?” His lips had curled in a nervous display. Ever since he was a child, Edmure would hold back a smile when he was nervous. “Edmure, what have you done?”

“They were defeated,” he said. “The Lannisters were broken, Cat. But I kept on receiving reports…there were still villages being put to torch and flame. On the outskirts of Riverrun.”

“You sent out men,” she realized. “You took men from the garrison.”

Her brother nodded. He pushed thin strands of red hair from his face. “Riverrun needs to be safe. How could I do otherwise? And I never would have thought that Tywin Lannister would from his grave send swords to save his son. My people were being put to the sword, Cat. It was my last order, before I left for Highgarden.”

 _Oh Edmure, you caring fool._ “Robb must know.”

“Ser Robin will retrieve him.”

“That doesn’t matter. The Northmen are preparing to return. The autumn harvest has passed, the campaign has lasted for three months.” _They want to be home. If only my son could have such luxuries._ “Robb still has to deal with Stannis Baratheon, and if the Westerlands rise up for Jaime Lannister…”

“They will be crushed,” her brother said.

“We will be divided,” she replied. “And we don’t even know about Dorne. They could sign with Stannis, add twenty thousand spears to his Stormlanders and Essosi sellswords. While our numbers begin to dwindle, his can grow.”

Edmure was not so certain. “The Dornish would never sign with a brother of Robert Baratheon. Not after the murder of Elia Martell and her children.”

“You don’t know that,” Cat said. “They might be willing to overlook that in favor of another royal marriage. Edmure, Robb _must_ know.” The resistance was breaking away on his face. “And you must be the one to tell him.”

For a moment, Cat thought that Edmure would have protested. But finally he sighed and gave a few weary nods. “I will tell him. This was my failure. I fell for the bait like some starved hound.”

“They are Robb’s people too,” she counseled. “You were duty bound to protect them, just as he is to secure the safety of his kingdoms. My son will understand.” She put a soft touch on his arm. “Your nephew will understand.”

She prayed that the warm airs would be an omen to Robb’s reception. The hills of Ashemark were green, but the sky was gray as iron, and the rumbling storms preceded the news of Robb’s victory. That stark cast has matched Catelyn’s thoughts before the arrival of the raven. But Highgarden was nothing but green, and red, and blue, and yellow and orange and all the other bright colors of the world. The estates were held up by pillars long and strong, and there were lush gardens everywhere. Every lord in the Reach wanted to pay tribute to their new queen, whose husband was victorious.

The sons of the Reach were quick to celebrate their victories. They were the same at Bitterbridge, so quick to hold their tourneys and to feast. Many bastards were no doubt made at Bitterbridge, and many were sown on their victorious parade towards Highgarden. Lowborn maidens were charmed by the allure of the knights, whose prowess in battle had secured a new age for the Seven Kingdoms.

Nevermind that the hosts that safeguarded Catelyn and Margaery had played no part in the Battle of the Hills.

Her king and son was waiting for them when they arrived in Highgarden. He was a great contrast to everything around him. The walls and streets of Highgarden were carved from white stone, and a sweet scent filled the air. A green bush and archtree was never out of sight, and Cat saw more than one hedge maze as she paraded down the brick roads. Robb was dressed in the gray and white of Stark, his face firmly fixed in gentle respect. He approached her with a stiff pace and his right hand in a tight grip on a cane.

Her son was barely one-and-twenty, but his eyes looked so much older. Ned’s eyes were the iron gray of Stark, and Robb’s were the bright blue of Tully, but she saw much of his father in her son’s eyes. In her king’s eyes, she had to remind herself. She wanted to fret and demand how Robb wounded himself, what the maesters said of him, and a thousand other questions. But she did not forget where she was.

Or whom rode at her side. Margaery Tyrell dismounted from her chestnut palfrey, with all the grace expected of a queen. There was an exchange of courtesies, and a chaste kiss on the cheek. There was no love between them, not yet. Catelyn remembered how long it took for her and Ned to build their marriage. It was years before she could look Ned in the eye with affection and want. _Yours will be the same, my son. Be strong and kind to your queen, and one day a warm peck on the cheek will not even be close to sufficing._

She quickly learned why Mace Tyrell had insisted on Robb’s presence in Highgarden. “A grand feast, My Lady,” he had said. “Should we not celebrate the king’s victory? An era of peace for the realm should be a moment for joy.”

 “Trust me Mother, I have no desires to emulate my good-father.” Lord Tyrell had granted her family apartments that overlooked the whole of Highgarden. From the balcony Robb could make out the lush hills of the Reach, and the sprawling Rose Road. “I will eat from his painted with roses, but I have other desires.”

“What is on your mind, Robb?” When her son had summoned her, Cat had imagined she would be in the presence of his lords and captains. Perhaps even Ser Loras, who was the first of his Kingsguard. But not even his wife was in his chambers when she arrived. It gave Cat the freedom to speak to him as she wished; as her son.

“I should be negotiating with my father’s bannermen,” he said. “To remain at my side against Stannis.”

“That is easier said than done. This has been a long campaign, Robb, and it still is not over. Stannis does has suffered in taking King’s Landing, but he holds the Iron Throne. And –“

“Arya and Sansa, I know.” There was a slight groan from him as he leaned back into his chair. “All this talk of kingdoms and crowns, and all I can think of are my sisters. They are still in King’s Landing.” There was a hesitation in his voice. “They would have been deep in Maegor’s Holdfast when the battle was thickest.”

She knew what had to be done. “A show of force. Showcase the strength of the new king.”

“Aye,” Robb said. “But to whom?”

That question rang in Cat’s mind as she was guided into the Long Hall of Highgarden. It was just a day past when Edmure showed her the letter sent by the castellan of Riverrun. Her brother made himself look proud and boastful, charming his way into the esteems of Lord Mace. But she knew her brother, and she knew that in the back of his mind was the letter. _Brother, please do not tell me you were the fool. Tell me you told Robb._

Down the Long Hall, Cat could make out a few faces. There were Queen Margaery’s immediate family – Willas, who despite his limp had a confidant appearance to him. His short cut beard helped, she thought. But his younger brother Garlan outmatched his brother, both in size and in the depth of his beard. It flowed off his face in dark curls, and he had the appearances of a man that knew the way of sword and mace and lance. The Knight of Flowers she knew all too well, of course, who seemed all too content with staying at the King and Queen’s side. _A good showing, for the first of my son’s Kingsguard._

As Cat tilted her head towards her son, she saw Margary whisper something in her son’s ear…and Robb choked back his drink in response. It gave Cat memories of when she was a younger woman, no less proud but a great deal more charming. Times when she would spend with Brandon Stark, who endeared her with words and smiles and more boasts than should have been considered decent.

It brought a smile to her lips, as she sipped from her glass of Arbor Red.

“You look very content with yourself, Lady Stark.” The weathered and sharp voice of Olenna Tyrell was unmistakable. “As you should, all things considered. This conspiracy of yours has worked splendidly.”

“This was hardly a conspiracy.”

“Oh?”  Despite her age, Olenna Tyrell’s eyes were a fierce black shade. _If they were weapons, her stare would have cut me down a hundred times._ “Then what was all this sneaking about for? I barely even heard a word of this marriage between my Margaery and your son before it happened. Let us mince words, Lady Stark. No use pretending a whore isn’t one when the only reason she is doing what she does is because she was paid. And we should not make illusions why my granddaughter was a widow for such a short window.”

Time was their greatest enemy. Margaery had to be wed to Robb before her father’s host had dispersed. “We moved quickly.”

“Quick is something you say of a well bred horse. You were fierce and determined to see my Margaery wed to your boy. And look…there they are. King and Queen.”

Margaery had just said something to Robb, in a low and hushed breath. He turned to her, and his face read that his wife had just said something that was barely above respectability. Margaery was beaming.

“My fool son must be quite pleased with himself. Surely he will be saying this was all _his_ idea.”

“Lord Mace is your son.”

“Yes he is,” Lady Olenna admitted. “And him being mine won’t make him any less of a fool. I have a name for him. Oh…I it is on the tip of this old tongue. Your father is a Tully; you know fish. What do you call that thing, which breathes in and grows as big as an orange?”

“A…puffer fish?”

“That’s it! My son is Lord Pufferfish, and that fish thinks he can ride a wolf all the way to the Iron Throne. Oh, but a wolf is a poor choice for a steed. Stags are easier for riding, I think.”

“But stags cannot protect their own. A pack of wolves is a dangerous thing.”

Lady Olenna smiled sharply. “I was mistaken. Forgive me, Lady Stark. You are no fish; you are a wolf.”

She allowed pride to grow inside her. “I learned to love the North, My Lady, and I grew to understand and admire the people that called it home. Your daughter will do well in Winterfell, I promise you.”

“Winterfell?” Olenna Tyrell was not convinced. “Roses wilt in the winter, Lady Stark. King’s Landing is much more agreeable climate.”

“My son did not fight for the Iron Throne.”

“Ironies abound. You son only wanted to rescue his father, but now he is in the position to take the seat that all the other lords were fighting over.”

She could almost see Renly Baratheon’s fading eyes. “And most of those lords are dead.”

“If my son were to hear such talk, he’d puff out some foolishness about how the only guarantee in this world is death. Maybe he’ll say how the gods demand us to seek out glory – as if the Paramount Puffer of the Reach knows anything about glory. If you were to ask me, we should have stayed well out of this stupid war. What business did Renly Baratheon have fighting for that ugly throne? There was Joffrey and –“

“By the testimony of Stannis Baratheon, Joffrey was not a Baratheon, but a _Waters_. And if that is true, then Stannis Baratheon is the only true heir to the Iron Throne. And if _that_ is true, then I say let him keep it. I lost my husband because of people fighting over it.”

Lady Olenna narrowed her eyes. “Forgive me Lady Stark, but I must have heard wrong, but it was said that Lord Husband advocated for a Targaryen restoration –“

“That is a lie.” _Jon Snow._ Her husband’s bastard was not someone she had thought of for a long time. She could not afford to. The world needed her to be strong, to bear the weight of everything that has happened to her family, and the bastard would only make her weak. “My husband loved his natural son, that is true. But he would never return the Iron Throne to the dragons.”

“Even if his grandchild was a dragon?”

Cat felt her stomach tie into a knot. “Lady Olenna, do not presume to know my husband or my family. If you knew even a shred of Lord Eddard Stark, you would not even think of asking that question. Tell your son he should be content with what he is.”

“And what is he, Lady Stark?”

“Alive,” Cat said, “and wealthy, and prospering.”

Every feast was long. Catelyn had attended many weddings before hers, and her father had more than one reason to throw a feast in honor of one reconciliation or another. More than a score of feasts were dull and uninspired affairs, and Cat had long since learned to grit her teeth and bear through it. Cups of wine were more than helpful, as much as it shamed her to admit it. But this Tyrell feast was an ordeal all unto itself.

It was a release when she finally managed to slip free from the pricks of the Queen of Thorns, the gluttonous boasts of Lord Mace and the stern conversations of Randyll Tarly. She managed to tumble into her apartments. It was a struggle to unlace her dress and shed into her shift. _I must speak to Robb about ladies-in-waiting. Many daughters of noble lords would earn much from attending to the king’s mother. And it would help me out of these cursed bodices._

She fell into a wine addled sleep, aided by the exhaustion of the past weeks, and she dreamt of Ned.

Ned was not young, with clean cheeks and boasting dark hair unburdened by age, but as she saw him last, with a beard that was full and well kempt, lines of gray racing over. There were thin cracks in his skin, born from the weight of his duties. His gray eyes were soft. “Cat.” The name was like an echo, beating across the soft green hills of the North. The pinewood trees swayed in the wind at the mention of her.

She spoke her name. Softly, she thought, but her heart was trembling like a thunder strike. “Ned, you were supposed to be dead.”

“Dead?” Her Ned shakes his head before he cups her cheeks in his weathered hands. “How can I be dead? I returned from the capitol. Don’t you remember?”

That’s right. It made so much more sense now. Ned didn’t perish in the south. He returned home with their girls. “Jon Snow.” There was a soft fear in her now. “Where is Jon Snow? And the Targaryen girl? Where are they?”

“Hush,” he commanded in a lulling whisper. “Don’t worry about Jon.” She obeyed his command, and sighed into his embrace. “There is only you and I, My Lady.”

“You and I,” she repeated, the words sounding so sweet to hear. Cat wrapped her hand around Ned, and heard the soft drumming of his heartbeats. How many thousands of times had that sound soothed her to sleep? How many mornings did she wake up with her head on his firm chest? How many hundreds more will they experience together? “Ned,” she said again, in a soft and dreamy voice.

From the corner of her eye, she sees him. A boy of dark hair and pale face, his eyes gaunt, and the entirety of him showing no expression or love or joy. “Jon!” The name filled her with fear.

Then she saw what was in his hands. A dark sword, burning with a fiendish fire. Before Cat could say anything else, the sword twisted its way into Ned’s heart. His voice is a gasp, void of life and words. Hot, dark blood flowed over her fingers. She wanted to scream, but Cat found she had no control anymore. All she could do was fall and feel Ned slip through her, like dust blown by the winter winds.

Jon’s sword was burning still. The dark flames flew up into the air, and when Cat looked up, she saw no light in the bastard’s eyes.

The sword was reaching for her, when Catelyn awoke. She felt weak and light and tired and damp. For a moment all Cat could hear were the haggardness of her breaths, and the soft wind that pulled at the curtains. Then there was the thunderous knocks on the heavy oak doors of her chamber. “Lady Catelyn! Lady Stark!”

She allowed herself a few sharp breaths. The voice was Olyvar Frey, Robb’s squire. “I’m awake,” she said. “I’m awake!” She slipped off from the covers and approached the door. She hesitated for a moment, considering all the possibilities as to why the King’s squire would be needing to awaken his mother past the hour of the wolf, and then she opened the door. “Olyvar, what is it?”

“The King demands your presence.” He licked his lips. “My Lady.”

“Did he say for?”

“No. Only that you come at once.”

“Then let me—“

“At once. My Lady.”

She nodded. “Very well, Olyvar. Bring me to my son.”

Her son was seated at his desk, with a thin robe wrapped around him. Margaery Tyrell was with him, as was Galbert Glover and Tytos Blackwood. None in her son’s chamber looked ready to be up so late into the night. There was the faint smell of wine in the air.

“My Lady,” honored Tytos Blackwood.

“My lords. Your Grace,” she looked to Robb. “I did not think the Queen would be here.”

“She insisted,” Robb said. He rubbed at his eyes, the same he would do when he didn’t know what to say.

 _Leave him no room to wiggle out of an answer. He awoke us this late, we have the right to know the whole truth._ “Your Grace,” she said, “why are we here?”

“Karstark knows.”

Cat felt her heart claw up her throat. “How much?”

“Everything.”

Glover looked towards Queen Margaery, who provided no answers. “Everything of what?”

It was only then that Cat realized that Edmure was not with them. Only Northern lords…men that Robb could wholly and completely. “Jaime Lannister has escaped from Riverrun.”

“How?” demanded Galbert Glover.

“The how of it doesn’t matter.” Margaery’s arms were crossed against her chest. “The Master-at-Arms of Riverrun is going to retrieve him.”

“Karstark,” Tytos said, “where is Lord Karstark?”

“He left,” Robb said. He spoke every word as if it was an insult. “He took fifty of his men and ran off in pursuit of Jaime Lannister.”

“Only fifty?” Lord Glover scratched at his beard. “Why so few?”

“Most of them have returned home,” Cat said. “If there is one good thing to be found in how many of the Northern lords have ventured back home, it’s that.”

Galbert Glover shook his head. “I don’t understand why we are even here. Let Karstark have his vengeance, Your Grace.”

“His sons died honorably on the field,” Tytos Blackwood said. “And his heir was returned to him from Harrenhal. This is more than about vengeance. Rickard Karstark has violated the King’s terms. He has no respect for King Robb.”

 _And a king without respect is a king without power._ Her thoughts turned to Aerys the Mad King, and how all of the men at court mocked him as King Scab. “Karstark must be dealt with. A show of strength, Robb.”

Tytos Blackwood nodded. “Your Lady Mother is right, Your Grace. If others believe that they can go against your commands without impunity, then you may as well hang down your crown.”

“Send out men after him,” Margaery said. There was a sharp look in her brown eyes, something Cat had not seen from her since Bitterbridge. “Robb, he defied you. You offered him rewards as befitting his station, and you did this to your face.”

“My Queen,” Tytos said in a calming tone, “it is easy to want sword and blood. But we must also think of the message this will send. There are other ways to punish a man besides sending men after him.”

It took only a moment for Catelyn to get Lord Blackwood’s implication. “You don’t mean to strip him of his lands and incomes?”

Tytos gave a firm nod. “I would, if it were in my power to do so. This defiance has gone too far. Let this be a lesson to his children Harrion and Alys. Just as loyalty should be rewarded, so much going against the King.”

Galbert Glover balanced his chin on his fist. Then he nodded in agreement. “Fair action. I would agree with Lord Blackwood. Your Grace, let it be known that Lord Rickard of Karstark is stripped of his titles, and all benefits associated with it. His son Harrion should be proclaimed as lord of Karhold.” Then there was a look in Lord Glover’s eyes, a fierce glint. “Let him do the deed. Do not deter him from fulfilling justice against Jaime Lannister.”

There was no hint of shock on Robb’s face. It was the mask of the lord, the face of the king. One that gave no suggestion of what the mind considered. “Have him do what I have prohibited?”

Glover dipped his head in humble respect. “Your Grace, so long as Jaime Lannister lives, there is the fear he will return to Casterly Rock. But if we kill a prisoner that surrendered with honor on the field, that will taint our souls. Rickard Karstark’s rebellion gives us the means to deal with both.”

“This must be done,” said the Queen. She laid a gentle hand on Robb’s shoulder. “Your Grace, Lord Glover speaks the truth. Let Karstark do what he wants.”

Robb looked at his wife’s hand, almost curious. “I must do this thing?” His words were low and cautious. “This seems something the Lannisters would have approved of. My father…he would never approve of this. This is not right.”

“Neither is allowing the Lannisters to be a threat to your people.” Cat’s voice gave no hint of a woman’s weakness. She wasn’t appealing to her son. She was speaking to her king. “The Lannisters ruled by fear, Robb. They would have struck off Jaime’s head before he uttered a single defiant breath. You are not the same as them. Let Karstark go, and punish him at a later date. After the death of Jaime Lannister. This is the path to peace Robb.”

“Peace,” he said. “Peace. How many dead are trodden beneath my feet because of peace?”

“Thousand,” said Margaery. “And thousands more if Jaime Lannister lives.”

Robb shook his head. “You all speak of ifs. If Jaime Lannister dies before he reaches Casterly Rock, we have nothing to fear. If Ser Robin Ryger returns Jaime to Riverrun, there is nothing to fear. If the Westerland lords refuse a man that created children of incest, we are safe. The only time that Jaime Lannister is a threat is one in which all those events occur.” He paused for a moment, searching for words. “I heard that my Lord Father refused to allow my brother and Daenerys Targaryen to be killed on King Robert’s decree. How is this any different?”

 _Not at all_. Catelyn wished she could have been there, to slap some sense into Eddard’s head. If it weren’t for what Jon Snow did across the Narrow Sea, would her Ned still be alive? A thousand question, an endless amount of answers.

Lord Tytos coughed into his fist. “Daenerys Targaryen is the daughter of a mad man, and the sister of a man that abandoned all guest rights in favor of his own desires, but she herself was innocent of any crimes. Jaime Lannister rode against your family, attacked your father on the streets. They are not the same.”

Robb tapped his fingers on the desk. “Fine. _Fine_. I’m washing my hands of Jaime Lannister. Karstark gets his vengeance, and we punish him for doing what everyone in this room wants to do. Now all of you, save for my wife: out.”

 

**THE WOLFGUARD**

 

Prendahl na Ghezn was nothing but blood and a swollen face. He was bound so tightly to the chair that Jory feared that the ropes would tear through his skin. His left eye had puffed so much that Jory could not tell if it was closed or not. Bloody mucus dripped down his chin.

This captain of the Stormcrows had seen better days. Jory did not suspect he would hold his position for very long. _Or his life._

“Talrios,” Jory turned, “what the fuck happened?”

The First Sword of Braavos was faring better than the Ghiscari. But not by much. His lips were swollen and blue, and blood dripped down from his cheek. His clothes were stained red and brown. “Stupidity, that’s what. Prendahl no Ghezn thought to do what all Ghiscari love to do.”

“And what’s that?”

“Stab you in the fucking back.” Talrios spat on the ground. “Prendahl had thought to end our insurrection against Astapor with one act of betrayal.”

Jory looked around. “Where is the Titan’s Bastard?” He had gone with Talrios and Daario Naharis to meet with their informant.

“Dead. Normally I would weep over the death of any Braavosi, but that would be wasted on Meero.” He was partway through a step before he groaned in pain and placed a steady hand on his rib.

“Are you hurt?”

Talrios let out a sigh. “Took a few fists to the chest. But I gave out better, trust me on that.”

A scream howled out through the wall. “The Hells is that?”

“He was Najazal kol Tarakaz. Our inside man that decided to turn patriot and conspire with Prendahl. In a few moments he will be a corpse. The Tattered Prince is making sure he spills all his secrets before that happens.”

Jory bit his lip. “This has all turned to shit. Where is Daario?”

He heard boots scrape against the ground. “Alive, have no fear on that count.” Daario Naharis’ golden smile was strained. “I cannot say the same for Sallor the Bald.” _Sallor the who?_ Daario must have read the confusion on Jory’s face. “Was a fellow captain of the Stormcrows.”

Talrios frowned. “I thought it was just you and this Ghiscari.”

“It was,” he answered. There was none of his usual charm in it. “A few of the most patriotic of my sellswords conspired with Prendahl. They murdered Sallor.”

Jory crossed his arms. “And where are they now?”

“Taken care of.” There was an iciness to his voice that unnerved Jory. “Have no fear on that, Westerosi.”

“Sounds like I have plenty to be fearing of,” Jory said. “This man,” he motioned towards Prendahl no Ghezn, “almost was the end of everything. How do we know that the Masters don’t know of us?”

There was a scream, wet and throaty, and it sent a shiver rippling through his gut. “We don’t,” said Talrios Fregar. “They may know everything, or they may know nothing at all. The Prince sent one of his Windblown to find out.”

Daario tilted his head towards the screams. “Pretty Meris they call her. Nothing pretty about her, I promise you. But she knows her work, the Prince insisted.”

Jory felt gooseprickles crawl up his spine. “So why is this one alive?” he said, stepping towards Prendahl na Ghezn. “I thought you would have twisted a sword inside of him by now.”

“I would,” said Talrios, “but it is always good to have insurance. In case this Windblown is not as adept as the Prince insists.”

“Daario,” Jory said, “you said something about an opera.”

“So I did.”

“This meeting was about said opera.”

“So it was.”

“Harwin and Alyn and I were kept in the dark about this the entire time. Tell me now. What was it about this…opera that made it worth all this mess?”

Daario sighed. “I do hate ruining surprises.”

“Not I,” Jory said. “I prefer to know the ending.”

When Daario Naharis looked to Talrios, he just shrugged. “ _The Valiance of Grazdan_ is the most popular opera among the Astapori. In fact, it is one of only four that they ever perform.”

Jory found that curious. “Why only these four?”

“Because,” Daario smiled. “nothing in all the world can compare to these four operas. Anything else would just pale in comparison. None can even remember who wrote them in the first place. These operas have always endured. And of course, this opera talks of how Grazdan the Great – the first Grazdan, I should add, the one that founded the ancient empire of Ghis – triumphed over the barbaric hordes of Valyria.”

Jory snorted. “Everyone knows that Old Ghis and Valyria went to war with each other three times. And the Valyrians won every time.”

Talrios Fregar raised his hand with fingers spread wide. “Five times, Jorah. And don’t tell the Astaporis that. They will be terribly disappointed.”

“He can tell them the poor news all at once,” smiled Daario Naharis. “They will be crowded inside the Auditorium for the performance. Astapor always throws it around this time of year. Religion rules everything in this city.”

“Razamaldan approaches,” Talrios said. “The season when Ghazdan joined with the harpies to spawn his brood.”

“They don’t truly believe that, do they?”

“It doesn’t matter what they believe,” Daario said. Another scream filled the room. “Many of the masters of this city, the masters that rule this city, will be crowded in one place. To feast, to drink…”

“To die,” supplied Talrios Fregar, “if we have anything to say about it.”

It was all starting to come together. “You kill them there, you kill all resistance.”

“What little they would offer,” Talrios said with a humph. “Most of the most prestigious masters will be there. Many those that are part of the Circle will be there.”

“The ruling body of Astapor.”

The Braavosi smiled. “Precisely. The Harpy may be like a hydra with a dozen heads, but most of them will be watching that opera.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Not long,” admitted Daario Neharis. “It will coincide with the last day of Praznys sol Nierhols’ week of games. None of the Masters want to miss that. Neither do I, if you care.”

“I don’t,” said Talrios. There was another echo of a scream. “Gods, how long does it take that one to die?”

“He _was_ as fat as a pig,” said the sellword. “Makes sense that he would squeal like one.”

“Daenerys,” Jory said quickly. “How does she play in all this?” Word was all over the city of how the Mother of Dragons had entered through gates of Astapor. Desired to buy Unsullied, it was said. And some even said that the dragons had come with her – the real ones, the kinds that Aegon the Conqueror used to unite all of Westeros. She had treasures and bounties from her husband’s conquests to pay. But if that was true, she had lingered as a guest for too long. And there was no mention of Jon Snow. _He would never permit her to buy slaves besides. He is Lord Eddard’s bastard, but he is still his son. And no son of Stark would ever swallow the trading of flesh._

The Braavosi scratched at his chin. “If she’s smart, not at all. She will stay far away from the Auditorium. I don’t see why she would want to see the opera anyway. It does lie about her forefathers. I’m sure it has no appeal to her.”

“You can’t be certain. If we are going to do this, we need a contingency if Daenerys is there.”

“Don’t worry,” smiled Daario Naharis. “I will not allow a single silver strand of her hair to come to harm. I have heard rumors of the beauty of Daenerys Targaryen, and that is something Daario Naharis must see for himself.”

If Jory could have rolled his eyes, he would. “Fine, fine. Now what about—“ It was then that Jory realized that the screams that were watery and coarse a moment ago had transformed into a heavy silence.

The door on the far side swung open. What stepped forth Jory could not easily call human. It was a face that may have once been belonged to a woman’s, but her ears and nose were sliced off. The only hint of them were the bulbous scar tissue that danced across her face. In her hands were a bloody rag, which she was using to cleanse the blood from her fingers.

“Najazal kol Tarakaz is dead.” The way Pretty Meris said that, one would think she was talking about the weather. “We shall need pigs.”

“Pigs?”

“Pigs,” she said, looking at Jory. “You will always struggle with moving a body, especially with one as fat as that. Cut it into multiple pieces; the head, the arms, the legs and the torso. Then starve the pigs for a few days. You will need to find a pig farmer that has about twenty or so pigs for the corpse in the room.”

 “I know a man,” said Daario. “We could bring the pieces to his hogs. They would have a roar of a time, but my man will be a silent as a mouse.”

Pretty Meris kept her face still as glass. “Once the pigs are so starved that the corpse would like fine dining to them, set them loose. They will go through bone like it was a pastry. That one weighs thirty stones, so give the pigs a good thirty minutes.”

Talrios and Daario nodded, as if they were pages listening to their ser.

“Well,” Jory said with hesitation, “that’s good to know. But, what did he say?”

“Oh,” she said, “he mostly squealed.”

“And when he wasn’t squealing?”

The Windblown did not look at Jory. She was too focused on the blood that was caught beneath her nails. “Begged for his mother. Regretted not killing his brothers.”

Talrios raised an eyebrow. “Why would he regret that?”

Meris shrugged. “They killed her. She was a slave. I think. Or beneath them for some other reason. Didn’t care enough to inquire.” She rubbed some spit into her fingers.

Jory shared a glance Daario and Talrios. “Is that it?”

“Is what it?”

“Is that all he said?”

“Hrm? Oh, yes.”

Jory threw his hands in the air. “So what do we have now? The biggest corpse I have ever seen, an opera at week’s end, and no way to get in.”

Talrios motioned towards Prendahl na Ghezn. “We have him.” It Jory a moment to realize there was a bucket in the Braavosi’s hands. With a whip he sent the water cracking in the Stormcrow’s face. Prendahl cried out, the water mixing with the blood and mucus. “Good morning Prendahl. I pray your rest was beneficial.” The Ghiscari gasped out a breath. “I have a few words for contract breakers. None of them are kind.”

Prendahl wheezed. His head was bobbing back and forth. He muttered, too low and throaty for Talrios to make out. He leaned in close…and the Ghiscari spat out a bloody phlegm in his face. Talrios whipped like a snake and slapped him so hard that the chair toppled over. “Get him up,” he said. As Daario raised the Ghiscari up, Talrios wiped the stain from his cheek. “I have even fewer words for those that waste my time, Ghiscari.”

“Fuck you.”

“Charming,” he said in a droll. “You Ghiscari never fail to disappoint me with your lack of manners.”

“I thought we were friends, Prendahl.” Daario crept in behind the Ghiscari, and laid his hands on the chair.

He jolted his head. “Daario?”

“I am a hard man to kill, Prendahl. You know that.” Daario smiled. A rogue’s smile, with a rogue’s sense of vengeance. “And those that attempt to end me do not end up long for this world.” He drew out a small knife from his belt, the edges curved and shining.

The Ghiscari gasped. “Daario!”

“Words are what I want.” Daario drew the blade close to his flesh, the tip just touching his sweat streaked belly.  “I do not want you to beg. I want a confession. Pretend I am one of those Westerosi priests.” _Do the septons demand confessions?_ “Why after all this time? Why now?”

For a moment Jory thought that Prendahl meant to resist. But when the man looked at the blade, Jory saw in his eyes that he was broken. “I couldn’t let you do it.” He turned his gaze, but Daario took seize of him by the chin.

“Look at me,” he demanded, and the sellsword’s tone sent shivers through Jory.

Prendahl’s breathing became more frantic. His eyes were shaking. “I couldn’t let you do it.”

“Do what?”

“Destroy Astapor.” Now it was his words that were trembling. “When we took on this contract, I didn’t understand the scale. How could you agree to this? If the Braavosi succeed, this will destroy everything. By the Harpy Herself, this will be the end of Essos!”

“I think not,” Jory said. “Westeros has done just fine without the slaver’s coil.”

“And you Westerosi are barbarians! Savages!” He gasped as Daario pressed the knife against his neck.

“Watch yourself,” Darion Naharis whispered. “You are in the presence of a Westerosi. And I hear they do terrible things when angered.”

“Bloodthirsty things,” Jory added. “Especially when filled with a righteous fury.”

Prendahl na Ghezn leaned his head back in a fruitless attempt to keep his neck from Daario’s knife. “Who else knows?” the Stormcrow demanded.

The Ghiscari rattled his head. “No one. I couldn’t tell.”

“Of course,” Daario said. “If any of the Masters knew what the Stormcrows were up to, even if you were the one to end the threat…why, they would never work with you again. That’s the truth of it – you were more concerned about your pockets than the prosperity of Essos.”

“That’s not –“

Prendahl’s words were cut off by his throat being sliced. Thick streams of blood poured from his lips, he shook and trembled, his eyes went wide. “It will take him a while for him to die,” Meris said. “Slicing the throat is not an instant thing.”

Daario wiped his dagger clean. “But it is a painful death. And I can take that.”

“You said there was an attack,” Jory said. He turned his back on the dying Prendahl. “How many died?”

“Not enough for you to be concerned about.” Daario tucked the bloody cloth into his belt. “Meris, can you take care of this one as well?”

She nodded. “Twenty pigs should do. That sound good to you?”

Talrios Fregar nodded. “Twenty pigs.” Prendahl na Ghezn choked on his blood.

 

**THE DWARFED LION**

 

Tyrion didn’t think it possible, but the North was colder than ever. There was a thick wind that pulled at his hair, and every time Tyrion felt that airy whip he thought his golden hair would go white with frost. Almost on instinct he would pat his dead, searching for crystals, and he was relieved every time.

The fear never left him, though. The North was too cold by far. Under the right light the creeks looked like shining glass, and Tyrion swore he saw more than a frozen snot or two. Tyrion saw not a single flicker of snow, and he shuddered at the thought of how deep the wind would cut when the hills were white instead of gray.

The _Blue Runner_ was a typical Myrish galley. Extravagant colors, more sails than Tyrion had ever seen on a vessel before, and thirty men on each side to handle the rows. Marsolo Artagar was Salladhor Saan’s man. Tyrion had heard more than a thing or two about the infamous pirate prince of Lys. Stannis must have ground his teeth into a fine powder at the thought of having to associate with men such as him. Tyrion enjoyed that thought, but he enjoyed Marsolo’s company even more. The man was a Tyroshi, with hair so dark and skin so brown one would mistake him for a son of Dorne

The man could pass for a Dornish in more than just looks. He had a fine taste in wine that Tyrion found most agreeable, possessed a small library that Tyrion was permitted to liberate, and when they dined together he was allowed to do so with hands unbound. “Can’t let word slip back to His Majesty that I allowed you to walk around too freely. But here, why, none shall be the wiser.”

Tyrion wondered what he had done to put the Captain on such good terms with him. There was a jape or two to be certain, but Tyrion felt none of them would have earned Marsolo’s good graces. Tyrion hardly felt that a dwarf had any prestigious rank across the Narrow Sea. _Perhaps a source of good luck, but little else._

Still, Marsolo Artagar’s hospitality was generous, and Tyrion was not apt to piss it away.

Tyrion liked the man so much, he almost felt bad when the sails of House Manderly rose up on the horizon. Marsolo thundered out his orders, told his sailors to unfurl all of his sails…but it was a fruitless thing. The Manderly galley had more rows and the bigger sails. Unless some sea dragon came out of the sea, the Manderly men were going to board the Myrish boat.

And there were no sea dragons that day.

As far as ship raids went, Tyrion supposed the _Blue Runner_ was treated well enough. Captain Marsolo had the wits to have his men stand down. He knew a lost fight when he saw one, and when one couldn’t run, sometimes the better course was just to raise your hands behind your head.

Once they were all cornered and surrounded by men with swords, a man who looked like he had spent all his days on the sea crossed onto the _Blue Runner_. He scratched at his black-and-pepper beard like it was a sea of fleas. “I am Captain Marsolo Artagar, this galley is the _Blue Runner_ , and we are bound for Eastwatch.”

“Once cannot be certain,” the man replied.

“We have a black sail!”

“That does not make one bound for Eastwatch. And you _are_ a galley of Myrish origins, and everyone knows that Stannis Baratheon has a fleet of Essosi sellsails under his command” The Northern captain surveyed the crew of the _Blue Runner_ with a suspicious eye. He chewed his words like all Northman did; as if he had balls of paper stuffed in his cheeks. Tyrion squinted as he focused on the Northman, trying to imagine him as a squirrel. He couldn’t see it. “I see no prisoners.”

“There is one,” Tyrion said. “I am a bit on the short side, so you can be forgiven for missing me.”

The Captain looked at him as if Tyrion was the first dwarf he had ever seen before. Then his eyes went wide. “Tyrion Lannister.”

“He has sworn to take the Black,” said Marsolo Artagar. “We are bound for Eastwatch.”

“I heard you before.” The captain crinkled his nose. “Lady Catelyn had taken you to the Vale.”

“Oh yes,” Tyrion had said. “She tried to have me tossed from a sky cell. She thought I meant to kill her son. The gods proved her wrong on that count.”

“Shut your mouth. Take him,” he grunted to his sailors.

Captain Marsolo rushed to his feet before being pushed back to the deck. “Wait! You can’t take him! He is bound for Eastwatch!”

“He is bound for Lord Wyman Manderly.”

One of the sailors had roughly raised Tyrion to his feet. “Can he not bound for anywhere?”

For all the wine they had shared between them, Captain Marsolo Artagar kept his silence as Tyrion was dragged off from the _Blue Runner_ and onto the _White Wraith_. Herne must have been a gruff captain who captained a gruffer crew, for Tyrion saw not a single smile or a kind word. Captain Herne was all too content with throwing Tyrion into the brig, along with the barrels of water and lime.

Tyrion satisfied himself with the thought that he wouldn’t die of thirst, at least. But if a storm were to strike and the ropes came loose, the barrels would crush him. Cersei would have been delighted at the sight.

And what was it with Tyrion Lannister and the Northmen always taking him hostage? If it weren’t for Jon Snow, he would have thought that they all had frozen shards of ice in place of hearts. Being stuck beneath the swaying hold of the _White Wraith_ gave him plenty of time to think on that bastard from Winterfell. Well, he had become more than just a bastard since Tyrion had seen him last. If what everyone’s been saying was true, then Jon Snow had gotten a child out of Daenerys Targaryen.

One would think the Starks and the Targaryens hated each other too much to get in bed with each other…but then again, Snows are not Starks, and exiled dragons can’t be choosers. Joffrey had made demands out of Varys to inform him of everything concerning the “dragon whore and her bastard lover”.  If Jon Snow knew that Varys had kept all such details away from Tyrion’s nephew, he would probably breathe a sigh of relief.

Varys had no qualms about saying such things to Tyrion, however.

“They have gone missing,” Varys had said one day beneath Chataya’s brothel. “My mice across the Narrow Sea scurry me nothing regarding them.”

“Mice? Not birds?”

“Mice.” There was a rare smile on Varys’ face. Smile was too strong a word; more like two worms squiggling together. “After Khal Drogo marched on Astapor, all went silent.”

“But Drogo died, am I wrong? A wasting sickness I heard.”

“Sickness, an assassin. Some even say that he fell off his horse and was kicked in the head.” Varys had shaken his head at that. “I would not place any faith in that one, My Lord. The Dothraki were practically born on their saddles. Khal Drogo is dead, that is for certain, but not by horse.”

“And mayhaps Snow and Daenerys Targaryen.”

Varys gave an uncaring shrug. “Mayhaps, mayhaps not. What difference does it make to you, My Lord? They are on the other side of the world, and if they live still, then they are alone and without any friends in sight.”

Tyrion’s broad fingers circled the lips of the glass. “Well, I do have an affection for bastards and other sorts of broken things. And an exiled princess who is all alone is broken in her own way.”

“I suppose.”

“And Jon Snow was kind to me. Well, he offered me a conversation at the very least. Now that Khal Drogo is dead, Daenerys has no army to march for her. They are a threat to no one.”

Varys had almost looked amused. “Are you hoping for a life of happiness for the bastard and this princess?”

“Why not? Someone should secure a little happiness from all this misery.”

And besides, Jon Snow’s life at Winterfell had brought no shortage of grief for Catelyn Stark, and anything that vexed the Stark woman amused Tyrion to no ends. “I would raise a glass to you, Jon Snow,” he said in the holds of the _Ice Wraith_ , “but I am lacking in both glass and wine. Still, take my blessings, and ram it down your enemies’ throat. Oh, and Tyrion would make a fine name for a son.”

Tyrion was half-awake and smelling of sweat when the sailors fetched him. Less fetched, more threw him from the hold onto the deck. The Northern winds were especially cold that morning. Tyrion could hardly see the sun rising in the sky. A tiny and miniscule orange thing among the dark and gray sky. A perfect description of the North in Tyrion’s mind; a humorless people with no desire for warmth.

He recognized White Harbor at once, but he expected a great deal more than the first and only true Northern city. Lannisport was a true harbor city, with massive piers that stretched down the coast and glimmering warehouses that glowed half as much as Casterly Rock itself. But White Harbor…well, it looked more gray and dismal than white under the morning light. Tyrion admitted it was probably a more impressive sight than any of the Iron Island ports, but that was like saying a potato was more appealing than a string bean.

One thing that Tyrion noticed, as they sailed into port, as he was dragged past the wide cobbled streets and into the polished halls of the New Castle, were all the tridents and mermen. Gods, they were everywhere. There were the banners of course, the white merman on the dark blue sea. The Manderlys must surely have loved to flaunt themselves. But that was not all; he saw gates smelted in the images of tridents, and mermen that were carved into the bone white walls, and the cobblestone streets were depicted with etchings of curling waves.

_Is the banner of the Manderlys a merman? I would never know if they didn’t hang a banner from every stonewall in this city._

In the distance was a castle, tall and white, and Tyrion had to admit there was more than a shred of pride in its décor. There were so many banners of House Manderly dressed from the walls and drum towers, the pale stones almost looked green. _That must be where I am being dragged off to._ He heard that the Lord of White Harbor was so fat he could not sit upon a horse. Tyrion supposed he was going to find out.

Tyrion knew that the seat of the Manderlys was called the New Castle, but beyond that he knew little. Well, it was white, that was for damn certain. Inside and out. He could not frankly say if the castle had earned its name. It didn’t look like an aged castle with worn but stable foundations. Winterfell it was not. In some parts of the castle, the stones were almost gleaming.

What interested Tyrion most of all was how Captain Herne was able to waltz with Tyrion in tow, with only a few gruff words shared between the Captain and the trident wielding guards. Tyrion didn’t need to know what they were saying; their eyes said everything. _Look. There is the Imp. The last Lannister._ Well, not truly the last. Tyrion had more cousins than toes, but he wouldn’t expect any Northman to know that. As far as they were concerned, there was only Lord Tywin Lannister, and his children and his children’s children. Why concern yourself with duties, such as all the uncles that Tyrion knew?

Tyrion had felt that he was dragged through a hundred white halls, all with the same décor of tridents and portraits of the sea, before he finally arrived before Lord Wayman Manderly. And the image of the man did not disappoint; Tyrion had seen fatter men, but all of them were south of the Neck. Lord Wyman Manderly was seated behind a polished black desk, the gentle crashes of the wave echoing behind him. Tyrion wanted to say that he could see the entirety of White Harbor stretch before him from the open balcony…but he was too short and Lord Manderly was too damn big.

Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse was rightly named; Tyrion felt pity for any steed that Wyman Manderly felt inclined to mount. The poor thing would probably be crushed instantly.

Tyrion counted three and a half chins on Lord Manderly, all of which wobbled as he spoke. “This must be Tyrion Lannister.”

“M’lord.” That was the first time that Captain Herne spoke without a snort or a grunt. “We captured him a day’s sailing from here.”

“That was a poor course of action, Lannister.” If Manderly had a mustache, Tyrion imagined the fat man would be twirling it. “It is not safe for any Westerman to be north of the Neck.”

“Wise council,” Tyrion said. “I would follow it, if I had any choice in the matter.”

“It was said that he was bound for Eastwatch, m’lord.”

Manderly waggled his brows. “Eastwatch-by-the-sea? So you meant to take the Black then?”

“Better that than be short a head.”

A booming laugh poured out from Lord Fat. His chins were wobbling before; now they were positively erupting. There was a pink hue to his cheeks when he commanded Captain Herne to leave. Tyrion had thought the Captain would raise a word of protest, but he left with only a respectful nod of his head. When the glimmering doors shut behind them, Tyrion was alone with the biggest man in all the North.

Well, alone with him and two guards, both of whom kept a steady eye on Tyrion, and a firm hand clutched on the shaft of their tridents. He wondered how adept they were with them. He decided he would prefer not to find out.

“So, Lord Wyman, why am I here?”

“I assumed because the Captain brought you to me.”

Tyrion’s amusement was running out. “Why did you have ships patrolling the eastern waters for me?”

There was a bemused light in the fat lord’s eyes. “Oh, what makes you so certain that was intended, Tyrion Lannister?”

“My luck is not so terrible that, out of all the ships in the waters, the one ship that one of your captains finds, is the one with me on it.”

“I am very sorry to say it, but that is the truth of it. As far as all the loyal souls in His Grace’s domain is concerned, you are a dead man.”

 _A dead man, am I? Why, if I could escape from your sausage fingers, then who would know me? Minding the issue that I am a very recognizable small man._ “Stannis Baratheon would love to hear it.”

“The Baratheons do not rule here.” The jovial pride had melted away into a cold tone. “Only the wolves. And even the biggest of lions must tread lightly when in the dark woods.”

Tyrion first thought of Lord Wyman as a fat lord that had indulged too much in the Stark’s loyalty. He was beginning to suspect otherwise. “Lord Manderly, what threat am I? I know what has happened to my family.”

Manderly scrunched his pale eyebrows. “Are you so certain?”

“Of course I do.” There was more anger in his voice than he intended. “News of my father’s demise reached King’s Landing just a day before the _Blue Runner_ set off.”

“And what of Jaime Lannister?”

“Jaime? He is in Riverrun, a prisoner of Edmure Tully.”

“Was.” The word hung in the air, and for a moment Tyrion felt his heart sink. “Your Lord Father has influences from above the grave, it would seem. Somehow your brother Jaime was liberated from captivity.”

 _Jaime was free? One of the Lannisters still lived?_ Well, more than just one. Jaime was always alive, although he would consider his captivity a damnation of sorts. Gods did Jaime hate to be held back for any reason. Being jailed would have been a torture in and of itself. But Myrcella was always safe in Dorne. Stannis Baratheon’s influence was small, and it certainly did not sweep past the Red Mountains into Sunspear.

Although now Myrcella was no longer a Baratheon, but a Waters. The whole realm had to know of Jaime and their sweet sister. _Gods brother. Always was proud to be a Lannister, but that was taking things a bit far. I’m not so sure even Father would have approved of that._ In a way, Tyrion supposed that he had always known. It always was Jaime and Cersei, Cersei and Jaime, the two of them too close and never too far from one another.

If Jaime reached Casterly Rock – which was not a sure thing by any means – than just how valuable did Myrcella become? Jaime had no love for children, but were the rules so plain when it was _his_ child whose life hung by a thread?

But when Tyrion saw the way Lord Fat’s beady eyes looked down on him, he realized. “You want me in case Jaime reaches the Rock.”

The Manderly’s smile put a cold fear in Tyrion’s throat. “You have become increasingly valuable in these passing days, Lannister. Tell me, how much does your brother care for you?” Tyrion was thinking what he should say. He was never short for words before, except when in the presence of Father, but this was Jaime. Tyrion can’t so easily lie about him. “A great deal I suspect. Maybe you will be bound for the Wall, but not today.”

“Then where am I bound? Another cell?”

A broad snort erupted from the fat lord’s nose. “Not under my watch. I prefer you to be here as less as necessary. It’s the seas, you understand. It brings great wealth to my family, and prosperity to my lords, but it is a danger concerning prisoners. It only takes one ship, and you are out of my grasp forever. The Seven must have been favoring me when we found you.”

“Thank the gods.”

“Indeed. I want you in a place where no such threat arises. And, there is the matter of justice?”

Tyrion’s eyes went wide. “Justice? What sins did I ever commit against your family? It was Catelyn Stark that apprehended me on no evidence and had me hang from a sky cell in the Vale!”

“You committed no crimes, that is certain. Well, perhaps none that we know. Anything you would care to confess, Tyrion Lannister?”

“I am playing no games, Manderly.”

“Neither am I, Tyrion Lannister. You may be innocent, but your family is not. Your nephew murdered our lord, your father struck against the Riverlands, and your brother wounded Lord Stark in the streets of King’s Landing.”

“As I recall, from under command of the King.”

“And as I recall, your bother is the Kingslayer. And why would I trust the testimony of a man such as him? No, your family has much to answer for, and you should do so. It is Prince Bran that should decide your fate, I think.”

 

**THE GOLDEN LION**

 

If Addam told him one more time to drink some water, Jaime was going to kill somebody. “Enough.” He pushed the canteen away from the squire’s hands. “You’ve nearly drowned me already Addam. I’m a lion, not a bloody fish.”

Addam Marbrand smiled in the only way he knew how. Jaime could see the dimples in his cheek, and the flash of his grin. “Leave Lord Lannister alone, Abel.” The Banefort boy quickly withdrew the canteen and slipped it beneath his cloak. “It was easy to mistake you for a fish, Jaime. You certainly did swim like one.”

Jaime gave a snort to that. That night was a memory of water and fear, the river washing over him as he washed for the shore. He remembered being pulled from the riverbed, half dead, panting like his throat was about to burn out from within him. Addam insisted that Jaime was awake during their flight from Riverrun, but Jaime would be damned if he could remember any of it. It was as if the river had washed all his memories away.

Perhaps it did.

If the need wasn’t so dire, Jaime had no doubt that Addam would have made Jaime rest in bed for a day or two. But Riverrun would never permit such a luxury on any of them, and so Marbrand kept his host of less than a hundred men moving. Always moving, always keeping the Tumblestone in sight, and never resting for a moment. Until they saw the Crag stretch above the mountains, the only thing they could do was press on.

And gods damn Addam, pressed on they did. Hardly a time to take a breath with the way Addam swerved them through Edmure’s thrice damned forests. Plenty of time for questions though, and Jaime had plenty of them. By the middle of the first day, Jaime had enough of his wits restored to start asking. “This was my father’s doing, wasn’t it?”

Addam gave a nod. “It most certainly was. He would have seen you restored to Casterly Rock, no matter the means.”

“I am sure he was sorry to part with you.”

Marbrand gave a snort to that. “Not as sorry as he was to part with you. The battle with the Young Wolf was upon us soon, and Lord Tywin knew his odds. And he knew _your_ odds of surviving should the battle turn against him.” Ser Addam had turned quiet then, for just a moment. “Have you heard any news?” he said after a time. “About the battle?”

“Dead,” Jaime said. It came off softer than how he had meant. He wanted it to sound harder, more certain, but all he could manage was a harsh whisper. “He lost the battle.”

Addam gave a stiff nod. “He will be avenged, Jaime. All of them will.”

Jaime did not want to think on the dead. “How was it that I even managed to get out? There was that burning tower, but still. Riverrun should have had more than a large enough garrison to keep me under lock and key.”

“We had ways to draw Edmure Tully’s eyes.” Addam tore through a jerkin like he was a hound; all bite and no grace. “Took a trick from Clegane.”

“The Mountain?” That sent a cold coil down Jaime’s gut. “What did you do?”

“Nothing we haven’t done already. Introduced a few villages to fire and sword. Enough that Edmure Tully had to send some soldiers out in response. He probably imagined a larger force, but we were always on the run. Who knew how easy it was to outrace a fish?”

“You shouldn’t be surprised. They were chasing you on land, Addam.”

Ser Addam smirked at that. “Yes, I suppose you are right.”

Father had made the right choice in picking Addam Marbrand for the task. Ser Addam could make a thousand men march into the gates of the hells, and they would be glad to do it. He had an easy smile, and made his soldiers love him. If there was anyone that could succeed in liberating Jaime from the dungeons of Riverrun, it would have been Addam Marbrand.

And the man was Jaime’s friend, always was, always has, ever since they were both pages at Casterly Rock. Father probably thought that would inspire some more conviction in him. He was probably right, but it also wasn’t like Father to gamble like that. Calculations and foresight defined Lord Tywin Lannister. _Is that how desperate the hour became for you, Father?_

He must have known, in his bones, that Jaime would be the last of his and Joanna Lannister’s children.

“If we can make it to the third day,” Addam said as the sun was rising on the second, “we will be home.” Jaime knew they had been riding for two days straight at that point; his ass was sore enough for it. It was all numb and aching, and whenever he shifted in his saddle he was punished for it with another pulse of pain. “Perhaps we will even meet some runners from your Father’s army. Your army, I mean.”

His army. That revelation hit him like a slap. It was always Father that ruled from Casterly Rock. Father that was the Warden of the West, Father that was _Lord_ Lannister. Jaime was only Kingsguard, a protector to a mad king and then a drunken one. That was all he was ever going to be. He had taken the vows for her, for Cersei, so that they would never be apart.

But Casterly Rock was always meant for him. And gods be good, Jaime wanted it. It was something he had prepared for his whole life. Father hadn’t trained him to be a Kinsguard to two fool kings. He wasn’t meant to watch good men burn, or stand idle as Cersei was defamed and abused by Robert Baratheon. He was meant to sit where Father sat, to dictate the future of the Westerlands.

But he was also meant to be with Cersei forever, the two of them at each other’s side for the rest of their days. Cersei was not supposed to be dead. It made no sense. It was bloody madness is what it was. When Rickard Stark was being burnt right in front of him, Jaime retreated into himself and dreamt of Cersei, and it was those same dreams that made the days beneath Riverrun bearable.

What dreams would comfort him in Casterly Rock? Memories and ghosts. Down every hall Jaime would see the dead. Father and Mother, Cersei and Tyrion. He would see them in the halls, just from the corner of his eyes.

Tyrion would think of something to say, Cersei would look at him with that boldness in her green eyes and Father…Father would remind him of what he was. But they were all dead, killed by the Baratheons or the Starks or by their own hands. The lions have been devoured by their enemies.

_Except for me. I am still alive._

The Tumblestone was what gave Riverrun its name, and Jaime had to admit the name was fitting. The shoreline was just as much grass and mud as it was pebbles and stone. As they made their way through, Jaime could hear the tumbling of rocks and the distant sound of axes cutting through the deep trees of the forests. Before, when Jamie commanded half of Father’s men, he didn’t have the time to take in the world around him. But now, when all he could was ride and keep up with Marbrand and his men…

It was almost like home. Oh, the Riverlands were lacking for the mountains and queries that defined the Westerlands, but there was something about this road along the Tumblestone that brought flashes of memories. The twists and deep turns of the rivers, the sound of the grass blown by the wind, the soft sound of leaves being turned by the wind…Jaime had played in many such a fields. He first learned to swim in the beach along Casterly Rock, but it was in the rivers that Jaime loved to feel the push of the current against his own, the rush of diving his head beneath the waters, and that exhilaration of gasping for air.

Cersei hated it. She was only content to dip her feet ankle deep into the waters, and Father had considered such foolishness a waste of time. Tyrion though…he always wanted to join. But his legs were too short, his body too small, his arms too weak. Once Tyrion dove into the rivers. Jaime couldn’t remember why he would that – there was an argument or something. Jaime probably said something stupid (he always said something stupid). He had to dive in after Tyrion to keep him from drowning.

 _I was alone in that. Was I alone in other ways?_ Gods, he hated the boredom. It made him think too much. Too much riding was bad for a man, he was convinced of it. Cersei loved nothing more than to ride, but Jaime didn’t care for getting ahorse one bit unless there was a purpose for it.

Well, there certainly was a purpose to fleeing across the Riverlands. Return to Casterly Rock, take up the seat he was born to take, avenge his family. Heads, stakes, walls. Father would have wanted it no other way. _I will look on Stannis’ head with pride as it hangs from the gate of the Rock._

But to do all that, they had to reach Casterly Rock first. The Riverlanders may come upon them with spears and arrows, and Jaime may very well die by their hands. But the boredom threatens to tear his soul to pieces. Gods, what he would to pass the time besides seeing another bushel of grass or another tree that towered over them all. Give him two naked lovers blissfully unaware, or the sound of horses to set his paranoia ablaze. Something, anything, to put his heart in a race, to fuel his blood, to put a hot taste in his mouth.

Anything to tell Jaime Lannister that he is alive, and not merely walking in a dream. _No, it would be far better that this was all a nightmare._ Father would not be dead, Tyrion would draw breath, and Cersei would be alive. He could almost see her, the blazing green of her eyes, the bright gold of her hair, that defiant smirk. Oh, how she would smile for him, and only for him. He would be hard as iron for her when she was down to just her shift, but one smile from her and Jaime would feel as soft as pudding.

 _She and I, Jaime and Cersei. That was what it was meant to be._ He had not eaten much, it was true. He took a few bites from a roll of bread, but Jaime couldn’t find the time to do more. He told himself that others needed it more, that he was already weak from his weeks in chains. Let a man who can actually wield a sword fill his belly. But the truth was, nothing could fulfill him in a world where Cersei was not in it.

“You are very quiet, Jaime,” Addam said.

His friend’s voice pulled Jaime out from his depressions. Was he more a whimpering dog than a lion of the Rock. Perhaps he should switch homes with one of the Cleganes. “I have reason to. We’re not supposed to be drawing attention to ourselves.”

Addam smiled bold. “And here I thought Jaime Lannister loved a good fight.”

“A good fight,” Jaime said with half of a laugh, “not a suicidal one. How many men do you think that fish will send after me?”

“A good galley’s worth, I’d imagine. He’s probably sailing the Tumblestone even now.”

“What is faster? A lion on a horse or a wooden fish?”

Addam scratched his nose. “I want to say the lion. But I know the truth is the fish..”

“Say it,” Jaime demanded. “There’s something else on your mind.”

“We’ve been making good time, Jaime.” Addam looked towards the distance. “But I can only account for Edmure Tully. King Robb surely knows by now that you have wiggled free.”

“You think we’ll run into company.”

“Aye.” There was a graveness to the word that was so unlike the bold Addam Marbrand that Jaime knew. “But from where? Could Robb Stark still be in the west? If so, we won’t be safe even if we feel the familiar winds of home. Your Father commanded I take you home, and I will Jaime, that’s a promise. But the more these days go on, the more I worry. That’s why I try not to think too much. Thinking makes me fear, and fear will be the death of us all.”

But when Addam would ride in silence, thinking was all Jaime could do. And he couldn’t take another moment of knowing what happened to his family. “Who were they, the men that got me out?” They were the first thing to come to mind.

Addam gave a nod. “Culver, Halvert, Albrect and Malcolm. Sometimes you don’t need a hammer. Just a chisel. I would send them to do things that a septon would not rightly approve of. Information gatherers, fire starters, infiltrators. My own little shadows. If any could get you out, it was you four.”

They had not bothered to wait. He remembered that Culver was with him at the end. “One of them had the looks of a Targaryen.”

“Yes, that was Albrect. Culver told me that he always got all the women. Was damn jealous, by the sound of it.”

“You knew them?” Jaime asked. “More than by name?”

“Of course.” Addam spoke like it wa the most logical thing in the world. “You send men to their deaths again and again, and they keep coming back…well, you get to know more of them than just their names. Culver’s father made shoes.”

“Shoes?”

“Shoes,” Addam said, “and damn good ones by the sound of it. I wanted to find out just how good they were, so I bought a pair. As soft as Myrish silk.” A warm smile crept on Addam’s face. “Was like walking on feathers.”

 _Walking on feathers. Now that’s a trick._ “So what compelled a cobbler’s son to become…whatever it was that he was?”

Addam shrugged. “I don’t know. He never told me. Perhaps I should have asked but…well, a man needs his secrets. He served me, and he served me well, and that was the end of it. When we die, our secrets die with us.”

“Like why a cobbler’s son would become a soldier?”

Addam nodded. “Or why your Lord Father sent me.”

“You know why,” Jaime said. “You had said so yourself.”

Addam sucked on his teeth, and his fingers tightened at the reins. “Your father had other captains beside me. My place is on the field. I was dancing with shadows out here, Jaime. I could have…” Addam Marbrand was never one short for words. Jaime had never known Addam to be quiet or to contemplate. But there he was, as they rode in the middle of his host to Casterly Rock, looking for words to say. Tyrion would have thought of something clever and insightful. He could say a thousand words in three.

He should say something lordly. ‘A man does not ask for second chances. Only the one chance to further the family name.’ Father would say something like that, something long and proud. And more than a little absurd, once Jaime thought on it. But the words sounded awkward and forced in his head.

Jaime hesitated for half a moment before he forced a smile. “You did what my father asked of you. If he chose you for this task, then there was no one better. You had the wits to draw the trout swords away.”

Addam strained a smile. “That was Culver’s plot in truth.”

“Then you had the humility to listen to your man. You’re alive, I’m here, and when we return to Casterly Rock…”

“I know, Jaime,” Addam said. There was a hollowness to his words that discomforted Jaime. He had never known Addam Marbrand to be so soft. “I know. It’s been a long time coming.” He smiled at Jaime, and Jaime almost wanted to say that the Addam he knew was returned to him. But there was a straining in his smile that was too alien to Jaime Lannister. It belonged more on his brother Tyrion than on the bold page at Casterly Rock.

Words were shared, but they were little better than noise to fill in the silence. There was a chill in the wind, something that was not there before. It was usually up to the maesters in Oldtown to declare when the seasons have changed, but Jaime felt he had no need of them. _Our thoughts are chilling enough, and the cold air is only making things worse._

Jaime wouldn’t say that he ever slept well on the saddle, but that second night there was no use. The roads were too uneven, the aches from his arse pulsed all over his back, and Jaime was beginning to think that his head was made from iron. No other way to explain how his neck was groaning like it was. Jaime swore he could almost hear it creak whenever he turned his head.

He thought they were making good time. Every morn they would have a fast of brittle oat cakes, and when the moon set they would traverse half the world. Or at least, that was how it seemed. On and on they trotted, and no closer to Casterly Rock. Shouldn’t the Tumblestone have winded down to the Golden Tooth by now?

The march from the Rock onto Riverrun seemed so much quicker than this. After Eddard Stark was taken into custody, Jaime knew it would not be long before the wolves and the trouts were unite for war. Nevermind that Stark outright said to the king that he would give safe harbor to Daenerys Targaryen. That was as dumb of a move as anyone could conceive. Between that and Tyrion being captured by Catelyn Tully…well, wars were conceived on less willing bitches.

It was almost as if Father had predicted the entire thing. A host of forty thousand strong were out within a few weeks, and the Riverlands burnt and bled before the North could even come upon them. But when they did, the entire realm learned that Westermen don’t bleed gold. Why was that march so quick, and this so slow?

 _Because this is no march. There are no banners to be had. We are little more than outlaws or scavengers, traversing from one shadow to the next._ They did not travel on the river road.  Through the trees, over the meadows, carving around villages and holdfasts…anything to avoid capture. Jaime thought that much secrecy probably raised more awareness than anything, and going through the woods cost them too much time. Sure, they would be seen by most. But then at least they would be in the Westerlands all the sooner.

The pain was getting worse. His thighs were numb in the pits of Riverrun, but now they were an aching of fire that swept over his muscles. Every time his legs bashed against the flank of the horse, the embers became a roaring fire. Only for a shadow of a moment, but that would often be enough for him to wince and pale.

Three days of riding, and he was covered in a cold sweat. He need to run, to swim, to get some life back into his muscles. Months of captivity have turned him into half a cripple. _At least take my hand. Then I would look the part._ But they couldn’t walk. They had less enough time as is. Addam would sprint through the Riverlands if he could.

The nights were the best part of the day. Those were the hours when Jaime could get off his fucking horse, slip his swollen ankles free of the stirrups, and he could just _walk_. Oftentimes he couldn’t tear his boots off fast enough, all do she could let his toes sink into the damp grass and let the cold wind blow over him. Addam sent his squire Abel to watch over him, and he would moan on and on about how “His Lord would catch a chill.”

 _I’d gladly take a hundred chills if it meant I could stop aching all the gods damned time._ The first thing he was going to do in Casterly Rock was have a bath drawn so hot and steaming that even a Targaryen would hesitate a moment.

It had been four nights since Addam Marbrand had plucked Jaime from the waters of the Tumblestone. Jaime thought the cells of Riverrun were wrapped in a smoldering heat, but that was nothing compared to the outside. His shirt was so plastered to his flesh that he thought he had grown another layer of flesh, except this one was oily and covered in sweat. No time for baths, no time to rest, only time to ride and eat on the saddle, and think of the ghosts.

The ghosts always came to him in the quiet, either as they rode through the Riverlands, or in the darkness of the night. Jaime knew their names. Mother. Father. Tyrion. Cersei. Her face he knew most of all. Her lips, her eyes that gleamed like jade, and her hair flowed down like a river of gold and sunlight. She was dead, his sister, his other, his woman, his life, his heart, the mother of his children. They were all dead.

But not him. There was still a lion in the world. His family was killed, but not him. Jaime lived.

 

**THE KNIGHT WITHOUT A KING**

 

There were days when Barristan considered Captain Groleo a blessing. Not just for the skill by which he had delivered them to Astapor. Barristan was half convinced that the man was the best captain in all the world. Groleo knew when to push his ships, when to dock into safe coves, and there was a quiet confidence. Ask a man a question about the seas, and his eyes would glimmer, his smile would tighten, and his words would carry a confident weight to them. For the safe passage from Penthos to Astapor, Barristan Selmy would always be grateful.

But as he insisted that Barristan take a drink, to calm the waters as he put it, gratitude for the man was far away the last thought Barristan had for him. “Enough,” Barristan said. “I do not need to drink Captain. I need to _think_.”

“You are thinking too much, Westerosi.” The Pentoshi’s smile was worn and cracked. “You are considering every single avenue, but there are far too many streets and alleyways in your path. A drink will bring clarity.”

 _A drink will bring confusion._ “I said _no_ , Captain.”

“Very well,” Groleo resigned. He looked at the glass of Lyseni green, twirling the spine of the glass between his fingers. Then he swiped the drink down his throat. Puckering his lips, he said, “Two days you have been in this city. I did not realize knighthood was given out for idleness, Barristan.”

It was not the Essosi custom, but whenever Groleo dropped his title it irked Barristan. He took in a deep breath to calm himself. “I cannot seem to separate truth from lies, Captain.” That was the truth of it. From the first day, they had heard a thousand stories. A new Sealord had been elected, and the Iron Bank was tightening down on its loans. A pirate king resided on Blackwater Bay – or perhaps a new Stag was on the Iron throne. The wine tenderer wasn’t certain. None of Astapor seemed to be certain on anything. There was a hound in the house of Hrasher, and his name was Jorel, Jamel, and Jonil, and he had survived the Abyss (whatever the Abyss was). Daenerys Targaryen was in the city, and she had returned dragons to the world. No, not dragons, that was ridicules – it’s fire breathing machines. Contraptions her dead husband had purchased in Tyrosh.

A thousand stories, and Barristan could not trust any of them. Two days, and Barristan felt like he was lost in the fog. Gods, what he would do for a fight. Let him be commanded to do what was right, and let that be the end of it. How long had it been since Barristan knew the right path? Perhaps it was Duskendale and even then…screams such as those would never leave him.

“I cannot do anything if I do not know what to do, Captain.” Barristan rubbed at his temples. The immense heat of the city was causing him nothing but headaches. Even Lady Sansa had complained, and slipped into lighter garments with only minor protest. A younger man would have been pleased at the sight, but Barristan Selmy was not young, and he was focused on the task at hand. “You seem to be full of advice. Then advise me, Groleo. What would you do?”

He smiled. “I would drink.”

Barristan groaned. “Forget I ask.”

“Fine then. Let us be serious, Westerosi.” The Pentoshi Captain took a seat at Barristan’s side. The Captain’s quarters were wide and generous, and outside the glass windows Barristan could make out the pink walls of the city. Astapor’s defenses were a paltry thing when compared to any of the great castles of Westeros. In all his lessons with Maester Edwin, he had never recalled one that taught of Astapor being invaded. It seemed so long ago, when Barristan would sit in one of the towers of Harvest Hall for his lessons. His younger self only wanted to be out in the practice yard; his older self wished he had paid more attention. “You know nothing of this city, and I know a pinch’s worth. Between the two of us, that makes an addled fool. You staying here will do us no good, and staying in the harbors of this city will only draw suspicion.”

“You have goods,” Barristan said. “Carpets and barrels of wine.”

“Yes, yes,” Groleo nodded, “Magister Illyrio made sure that a merchant cog had all the appearances of a merchant cog. But he did not overflow our holds with it.”

‘So?”

“So, a merchant cog wants to make money.” Groleo rubbed his fingers together. “To travel from Pentosh to Astapor is very expensive. Magister Illyrio wants a return on his investments; if he wants to sell goods to Astapor, he would pack enough to make the trip worthwhile. And if inspectors look at his ships and see how paltry they are, they will ask questions. Questions like ‘Why bring so little treasures to our great and illustrious city?’.”

“Because we do not know how many we need to bring back. Three or a hundred.”

“Just so, but we can’t have the Astapori know that. Because the moment that they do, our pretty heads may very well end up on walls. Well, your head is not so pretty Barristan, but the world will weep should mind end up on stakes.”

Barristan allowed himself to smile. The Captain had his moments of humor. “Your words are true, Captain, but that still doesn’t answer the question of how to proceed.”

“You know where Daenerys Targaryen is. In the pyramid of Nakloz. Go to her, get on that knee like you Westerosi love to do, swear oaths of loyalty, cut your palm in ceremony, or whatever else fits your fancy.”

“Usually, we just get on our knees.”

Groleo raised a brow. “Oh? That all? Thought it was more extravagant than that.” He shrugged. “Well, go do that then.”

How he wished he could. But Barristan would not forget how he had aligned himself with Robert Baratheon after the Trident, it was not likely that Daenerys Targaryen would forget either. How could he explain to her that he abandoned her father, who was the King, and her other brother Viserys, and her nephew, who by the rights of the gods and the realm was the heir to the throne? _Robert was just in his wars. Aerys demanded his head, and it was evil for him to demand so. Her father had Lord Rickard and his heir Brandon killed in the throne hall. Robert was victorious on the field._ And yet, it was always the dragons that had ruled, and Barristan was a kingsguard. It was his duty to protect the realm, and that meant the king and his family.

But Barristan had seen Rhaegar die, had seen the rubies from his chest scatter down the river, gleaming in the stream. Robert Baratheon had sent his physicians to care for Barristan’s injuries.

 _Even in my mind it stinks of treason. My words and excuses will not win her over._ The question was what happened to Jon Snow? In all of his questionings of all the wine sinks, he had heard no mention of the man. What would Daenerys say when she saw Lady Sansa brought before her? A peace offering? Proof that Barristan was loyal to the house of the dragons? _A sister that wants to do right by her family?_ Is Jon dead, abandoned or a deserter?

_Littlefinger would be at home here. And so would Varys the eunuch, Stranger take his soft soul._

“I cannot just bend my knee. That might not be good enough for her.”

Groleo grunted. “Then what _would_ be good enough for a Westerosi queen?”

“Proof of fealty.” Barristan sighed as he fell back into his chair and closed his eyes. He could hear the gentle waves of the bay. “Daenerys Targaryen has every reason not to trust me.”

“What of Sansa Stark?” Barristan opened his eyes, just enough for Groleo to be seen in the squint. “She is this…”

“Jon Snow,” Barristan said. “The bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark.”

The Pentoshi captain rolled his hand in the air. “Yes, yes, whosever son he is, he is this Daenerys Targaryen’s lover, yes?”

 _That is what Jorah the KInslayer believed. And that was enough for Lord Eddard. “_ That is true.”

“And Lady Sansa is her…sister, yes?”

“That is the short of it.”

“Then that is why Daenerys Targaryen will know you for true. Gods Westerosi, is everything so difficult?”

“It is,” Barristan said. “We have not heard one word concerning Jon Snow since we arrived.”

“So?”

“He might be dead. Or perhaps he has betrayed her.” Groleo gave him a narrow look. “He _is_ a bastard, Captain.”

Groleo did not look convinced. “Be that as it may—“ The echoes of footsteps boomed through the wall. “Ah, that must be the Stark girl.”

“ _Lady_ Sansa,” Barristan gritted.

The Captain rolled his eyes. “As you say.” At that the door to the Captain’s Quarters opened, and Sansa stepped through. Barristan noticed her cheeks looked more flushed than usual. “Lady Sansa,” the Captain said with one eye on Barristan. “What do you need from me?”

“Dinner,” she said. Then she added, “I had overheard from one of the sailors, and…”

“Yes, yes,” Groleo said. He rose to his feet. “It is getting late. Too much wine makes the mind slip. Only one glass, but still. I’ll send word to bring it up at once. In fact, I will see to it personally.” And before Barristan had the chance to say anything, Groleo swept out of the room, and it was just he and Lady Sansa.

“Lady Sansa,” he said, “how was your day?”

“Good.” There was a small smile on her face. “Productive. How was your brooding?”

Barristan bristled. “I was not brooding, My Lady. I was simply thinking on what our next course should be.”

“Of course. And have you decided on our next course, Ser Barristan?”

Barristan wished he knew what to say. Groleo accepted his words well enough, but would Lady Sansa? The life of her bastard brother may not be something Lady Sansa would calmly consider. “We are alone Lady Sansa. We must be careful. I cannot endanger your life.”

Sansa was lacing her fingers together. “We are not alone, Ser Barristan. Magister Illyrio sent three ships with us.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“And unlike us and the Captain, the crew have been out in the streets.”

That made sense. The sailors wanted to explore the city, to rest and eat and…do whatever it was that sailors did when in a foreign port. He chuckled. “If they found some exotic wine, I’m sure the Captain would love a taste.”

Sansa’s fingers were trailing along the woodwork. “Wine, to be certain. I have heard that Ghiscari Green is very bitter. But they also talk of other things. Like what they see in brothels.”

“They should not speak of such things to you.”

There was a glint in Lady Sansa’s blue eyes. They were almost shining. “Who says they spoke to me? I heard of who have been visiting the brothels as of late. Dothraki.”

That gave Barristan pause. “The Dothraki?”

Sansa nodded. “Do you know of Halemor? His mother was a Dothraki. Hearing him tell it, his Pentoshi father had saved her from a warlord.”

“That is a sweet story, but My Lady I do not understand how—“

“Halemor’s mother was very prideful of her heritage. She made sure that all of her children knew the Dothraki tongue. Halemor is very fluent, Ser Barristan. He knows the Common tongue, Low Valyrian and Dothraki.”

“Very impressive.” That was not a lie – Barristan himself only knew Common and Valyrian, and he was not fluent in the former. “But what does that have to do with anything?”

“Ser Barristan,” she said, “Halemor had seen Daenerys Targaryen’s Dothraki on nearly every single one of his visits to the brothels. And he understood every word that they said.”

Barristan leaned forward on the table. “What did they say?”

“The wine was too salty, and the women were even worse.” She looked almost amused.

Barristan let out an aggravated huff. “Leave it to men on the sea to have their priorities all wrong.”

“Not all wrong. Halemor was able to do what I requested of him.”

“Requ…Lady Sansa?”

“Caution is good, Ser Barristan. My Lord Father and Lady Mother would advocate such a thing. But too much caution could be the death of my brother and Lady Daenerys, and we cannot have that. Halemor relayed my message.”

“You spoke with the _Queen_?”

Sansa let out an exaggerated gasp. “I did no such thing, Ser. A lady knows her courtesies, and speaking through a sailor in a brothel is not courteous at all. But Halemor did let it…slip that we are in the harbor.” She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a letter, unbound and loose. “Ser Barristan, we have an audience with a queen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just in time for Thanksgiving! Sorry for the wait, guys. I literally just lost track of time while I was writing. Didn't realize it was so long since chapter 16.


	19. The Great Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paraszys' great week of games has arrived. A meeting between a wolf and the dragon. Jaime takes a well-needed rest.

**XVIII**

**THE GREAT GAMES**

**THE DAUGHTER OF WINTERFELL**

 

It was not lost on Sansa, how she always seemed to have her face veiled beneath a hood when it was dark out. The streets were different, and for the wretched smell of King’s Landing, it did not possess any of the stinging dust that Astapor blew into her face. But she trailed behind Ser Barristan all the same, and with how tightly he pulled the hood to his face, he did not look so different from Lord Varys. Father had once told her that life was a circle; Sansa began to wonder just how right he was.

There was a moon above them, pale and full.

Captain Groleo did not like this one bit. He did not even try to hide his displeasure. “Of all the fool things for you to do. You decide to do this?”

“Captain, I couldn’t refuse her.” Halemor was wide shouldered and possessed a full chin, but he almost looked smaller whenever the Captain glared at him.

“When it involves something like this you may!” The Captain’s nostrils were flaring and his cheeks went bright and red.

“But Captain, you told us to do whatever the Westerosis asked of us!”

Captain Groleo could only glare and fume in response.

“Quiet, all of you,” Ser Barristan whispered. “Lady Sansa, keep that hood of yours close. As tight as you can. We cannot risk anyone seeing you.”

“You don’t think any would recognize her.” Groleo glanced between the Ser and herself. “Do you?”

“I would not risk it. Halemor, lead on. I do not imagine Her Majesty would want to be kept waiting.”

Sansa could not imagine any would want to linger on a night such as this. Perhaps if she was back in Winterfell, able to look beyond the rolling hills, she would find comfort. But Astapor was a strange city. Sansa could not take comfort in a place where slavery was encouraged. Maester Luwin had called it an abomination, and the first time they rode past a crucifixion, she knew him to be true.

“When slaves disobey their masters, they meet fates such as this,” Captain Groleo had said. The man had been to all of the Free Cities, and surely to Slaver’s Bay on more than one occasion. He must was surely no stranger to that display…and yet, Groleo turned his sight from the agonized whimpers of the dying. “Let’s reach your queen, and quickly.”

That was a thought Sansa and Ser Barristan had shared. Sansa’s stomach was coiled on itself as they rolled past. She was certain that if they remained any longer, she would have lurched up her evening meal.

The Harpy’s Palace did not look anything like the Red Keep, or even the estate of Illyrio Mopatis. But it was covered in draperies of silk, and Sansa could smell the perfume from down the corner of the street that led to its blackwood door. “The instructions were very clear,” Halemor said. “Not the front entrance. The side.”

“And how do we know this is no trap?” Ser Barristan’s gray eyes were peering down on the sailor. No easy feet; Halemor was easily a head taller than the knight. “An agent of the Lannisters could have intercepted the message.”

Halemor offered no answer. “Westerosi,” the Captain said, “the choice is yours. I am here to represent Magister Illyrio…but I am leaving this in your hands.”

Ser Barristan considered for a moment. “I cannot with Lady Sansa. I know we have come so far already—“

“I will go,” she said. “Ser, it is as you said. We have come so far already. I will not turn.” _I must not turn. Father would not falter, and neither can I._

No arguments were raised. With a simple nod acknowledging his approval, Ser Barristan allowed Halemor to lead the way. They followed the sailor around the Palace, towards a wall. “The letter said…Captain, I swear!”

“He speaks true, Ser,” Sansa said. “The letter was messaged to me, and it said to go in from the side.”

“Go from the other side then,” Ser Barristan said. “Surely this brothel has more than a single side?”

“Not this one,” the Captain said. “Look. It is practically built into the wall itself.”

Ser Barristan sucked on his lips. “Hold on.” He began to feel the wall, his fingers tapping against the hard surface. Like so much of Astapor, it was formed from bricks, of a thousand different hues. But all of them were red and pink. Sansa began to think that the Ser would give up…but then there was a low click, like the sound of keys turning in a lock, and a portion of the wall turned away. Sansa almost hopped back in surprise.

The Captain let out a low chuckle. “Westerosi, how did you think of that?”

There was a willful smile on his face. “As Kingsguard to Robert Baratheon, that also meant I had to protect the lives of his brothers when they visited the Red Keep. And Renly Baratheon had an appetite for tall stories…and absurd legends from the Stormlands. Many of them involved secret passages. Let it be said that a knight puts _nothing_ to waste.”

“I’ll remember it,” Groleo said. “Now can we get going before somebody sees us?”

Ser Barristan went in first, with Sansa close behind. Thin bright orange shades of light streamed in-between from the planks above. She could hear the voices and songs from the brothel. Strange music was played on lutes and flutes, and she could smell perfumes and spices as they streamed into the tunnel below. For a secret passage, there was a lack of rats and spider webs (all which Sansa thanked the Seven for). In fact, the floor was carpeted and soft, and portraits of naked women hung on the walls.

At the end was a stair, built from wood and winding upwards. Ser Barristan took a step, and for a moment paused. Then he sucked in a breath and ascended the steps, with all the others behind him. There was no light in the stairwell, only a thick darkness that covered everything. Sansa kept both of her hands on the walls to keep her footing, and she took every step with care. She was practically tiptoeing at times. Then there was a thud. “Ser Barristan?”

“I’m fine!” he snorted. “I’m fine. I just bumped into a wall.”

“Well,” Captain Groleo said, “push it down.”

“Ser,” Sansa said, “be careful. The steps are short!”

She heard nothing from Ser Barristan save for his huffs as he pushed his shoulder into the wall. A thick thud was his reward. He pressed again, and again, and it seemed each time the wall was getting weaker. “If I don’t get it this time, I’ll just kick it.” She heard an inhaling of breath, and then –

There was light, everywhere, as the wall groaned open. Sansa was almost tempted to shield her eyes, but she dared not take her hands off the walls. Suddenly the smell of perfume and powder was overwhelming, and it took Sansa all she had not cough and sneeze. Her eyes were only a small squint, but she saw Ser Barristan carefully advance.

Sansa took a step onto solid ground.

Orange and red, blue and gold; candles, carpets, tapestries and spices. For a moment, the brightness of it made Sansa dizzy. But then everything became clear. Sansa blinked, and she saw a tall man of a broad face with even broader shoulders. A sword was tied to his side. Blink; a man with flesh like copper, his hair a dark and consuming shade. A loose vest was wrapped over his chest, and Sansa was certain she saw a whipped coiled in his hands. She blinked again, and saw a man much like the other, except there was a cloth wrapped over his eyes.

Sansa was still. _Seven preserve me. She is beautiful._ Daenerys Targaryen was sitting in a wooden chair, but by her posture one would mistake it for a throne. She certainly was more at ease on that chair than Joffrey was on the Iron Throne. His hair was silver, like summer snow, and her eyes were lilac and brilliant.

Ser Barristan withdrew the hood from his face, and gave an honorable bow. “Majesty.”

The man with the whip growled something in a tongue Sansa had never heard before. She could not imagine how any man could speak like that. Daenerys Targaryen looked towards the tall man with the sword. “Ser Jorah, who is this man?”

_Jorah? Jorah the KInslayer?_

“He must be Ser Barristan Selmy. No, Your Grace, forgive me. I saw the man at the tourney at Lannisport. I will never forget that day. There is no mistaking the man. That _is_ Barristan the Bold.”

The man with his eyes covered looked at Sansa. “And if he is this Barristan of the Andals, then you must be Sansa, the sister of Jon Snow of Winterfell.” His words were thick and deep, but the man knew the Common Tongue.

Sansa had not thought that the man would know the language of the Seven Kingdoms. “You can speak the Common Tongue?”

The man laughed. “There is no mistaken her! That is Jon Snow’s sister, Khaleesi. He reacted much the same way at your wedding, if you recall.”

“I recall,” Daenerys Targaryen said. “There is not much I will forget from that day.” She looked beyond Sansa and Ser Barristan towards Captain Groleo. “And who are you?”

“I am Groleo, captain of the Saduleon, if it pleases you.”

Daenerys Targaryen did not look pleased. “That remains to be seen.”

“Magister Illyrio has sent me in the company of Barristan Selmy and Sansa Stark to retrieve you.”

“Retrieve me?” Daenerys tapped the arms of the chair at an impatient pace. “To what end?”

Captain Groleo was not standing as proudly as he once was. Daenerys Targaryen was small in comparison to him, and with a few words she had intimidated the man. “To protect you,” he said. “To preserve you from your enemies. Magister Illyrio wants nothing but the best for you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Does he?”

“Of course. He has placed three of his greatest cogs under my command with that aim. He would see you safe and free.”

“Then Magister Illyrio must be glad, for I am both. I am free of my marriage to Khal Drogo, and the Usurper’s knives will not find me.”

Ser Barristan looked at Daenerys with uncertainty. “The Usurper?”

“Of course,” she said. “Robert Baratheon has sent knives after me and my brother for all of our days. Not one night did I go to bed without fear. Until I knew another…” She shook her head, as if she was dispelling the thought from her mind. “You pledged your life for my father, Ser Barristan. Is that true?”

“It is, Your Grace.” Ser Barristan’s voice became small.

“And then you swore to the Usurper, stood at his side, feasted from his tables, all the while—“

“Robert Baratheon is dead!” Sansa’s voice cut through them all.

Daenerys Targaryen looked at Sansa, for what seemed like an eternity. Sansa could see how her violet eyes were shaking. “What? How?”

The two questions asked would have a thousand answers. Sansa was always told to be polite, but never on how to give hard truths. “King Robert died. It was a hunting accident, they said. And now his son…Joffrey Baratheon rules from the Iron Throne now.”

“And…Jon’s father. Your father, where is Lord Stark now? Why are you here? Why are either of you here? Is he in Winterfell, holding the North for Robert’s son?”

“Joffrey killed him.” Her voice was a whisper, small and trembling and just as weak as everyone said she was. _He made me look at Father’s head. He made me look. I looked and I could not turn away._ “My father wanted to keep you safe. He—“

“Your Grace.” Ser Barristan laid a steady hand on Sansa’s shoulder. She was shaking, she realized. Her fingers were quivering. “I had stood in many of the King’s councils. As the commander of his Kingsguard, it was my duty to do so. There was only one time when he advocated for your death, My Grace. When he learned that you were with child, he demanded with a great fury that you be put to death. Only Lord Eddard Stark and myself advocated for your safety.”

Daenerys Targaryen shifted uncomfortably in her chair. All of her pride and strength left her. “Lord Stark…wanted to keep me safe. The Usurper’s dog –“

“He was no dog!” Tears were streaming down her cheeks, leaving behind a cold and wet trail. “He was my father. And he wanted to keep you and Jon safe, and your baby. I pleaded mercy for him, after the King’s men took him into the dungeons. Arya was gone and I was alone and the King promised mercy if he…if he…but there was no mercy. He said death was a mercy, and Joffrey _killed_ him and made me look. He made me look at Father’s head hang from the wall, he and Septa Mordane who had never hurt anyone. What did she ever do to anyone? And Vayon Poole…his head was there as well…”

How long she cried Sansa could not say. When she finally wiped her tears away and allowed her vision to clear, she felt some soft hand laid on her cheeks. And then all strength seemed to leave her, and dropped her head into Daenerys’ chest. “Forgive me,” Sansa heard her say so softly. “I didn’t know. I never knew.”

Finally, the Kinslayer’s voice spoke through the silence. “So our enemy is now King Robert’s son. How do we know he has not sent assassins after you?”

“He would not have the time,” Ser Barristan said. “Robb Stark has been declared the King in the North.”

Daenerys looked towards the knight. “Jon’s brother is king?”

“The North and the Riverlands have separated themselves from King’s Landing, Your Grace. And more than that, King Joffrey’s uncles Stannis and Renly have also declared themselves kings.”

“My rightful throne has many contenders it would seem.” Daenerys let out a proud huff. “And so why are _you_ here, Barristan the Proud? I understand why my good-sister is here.”

Ser Barristan choked. “Good-sister? Did you and Jon Snow—“

“By all the laws that matters, we may as well be. Answer my question, Ser.”

The knight fumbled with his fingers behind his back. “I wanted to serve the rightful king. Queen,” he choked. “The throne should belong to the dragons.”

“You had twenty long years to serve the dragons. Ser, tell me true.”

“Joffrey Baratheon dismissed me,” he said. The Ser’s breathing became slow. “And in that moment, I gained clarity. Your Grace –“ and he got down to his knees “—I would serve you and your child, and whomever you name your king and consort. I would protect you and see you on the Iron Throne.”

The scene was almost one out of the songs, but it was all wrong. Ser Barristan’s voice sounded tired and desperate, and there was no pride or joy in Daenerys Targaryen’s eyes. “Rise,” she said, “but not as my knight. If you wish to prove your worth to me, then serve me.”

“How may I serve you?”

“Bring to me Jon Snow. Rescue my beloved.”

 _Rescue Jon?_ “Where is my brother?” She forgot herself. “Your Grace, where is my…is Jon safe?”

Daenerys Targaryen gave a nod. “He is alive. But not safe. He is a slave.”

“A son of Westeros is in chains?” There was a hard iron in Ser Barristan’s voice. “Who has done this?”

“Terzac vo Hrasher,” Jorah said. “He trains…No-Eyes, what did you call them?”

“bloodsworne,” answered the blind one. “They fight in the Blood Pits. The Astapori almost consider them gods. If they win. The dead are no worse than meat for the hogs. Khaleesi, Praznys sol Nierhols’ games are underway. You know where Jon will be.”

“Right in the middle of it,” Daenerys said.

 _Jon is in danger._ “Why is Jon in chains? Have you done nothing to save him?”

“I am doing _everything_ I can to save him. I will not have my son not know his father. Do not forget who you are speaking to, Sansa Stark.”

She forgot herself. Sansa lowered her head. “Forgive me, Majesty. Jon is my…he is family.”

Sansa thought Daenerys Targaryen would snap at her, or remind her of who she was like Queen Cersei would do. But then she felt Daenerys gently take Sansa’s hand. “I will never ask apology from you for loving your brother. I have a dragon’s temper, and I have been without Jon for too long. I saw him only briefly and that…it is not good, for two people bonded together to be apart for too long. It makes them restless.”

“Majesty,” Ser Barristan said, “I will deliver Jon Snow to you. Your son shall know his father. I swear it.”

“I do not need your oaths, Ser. Words are like the wind. I need you to be everything that Ser Jorah believes you to be. Do this thing, Ser, or be sure that I never see your face again. And Lady Sansa,” she said, turning towards her, “I would have you with me.”

“Your Grace?” she croaked.

“You are my family now, and I would see you safe. I have no doubt that Captain Groleo of the _Saduleon_ would never harm you, but I still insist. The dragons and the wolves must be together. Enemies are everywhere in this city.”

Jorah Mormont coughed into his fist. “My Queen, I understand your reasoning, but that places Sansa Stark in immediate danger. That will be a new face in Nakloz’s pyramid, and that can only draw questions. She is safer with Ser Barristan the Pentoshi.”

“Still, I would have you with me, Lady Sansa. Unless you are at my side, I cannot promise your safety in the coming days.”

Sansa blinked. “What is coming to this city?”

The Queen’s violet eyes shined. “Fire and blood.” Her words were filled with conviction, and Sansa felt her lips tremble.

She thought of Ser Barristan. He was a true knight of the Kingsguard, and would do whatever it took to bring Jon to Daenerys Targaryen. But Sansa could not say he was cunning. “All the same, I would stay with Ser Barristan. Jon is my brother. If what you say is true, then us being together will only make your duties more difficult. Focus on what you must do, and let me assist Ser Barristan in his duty.”

For a moment, Sansa thought that the Queen would refuse her. Then she smiled. “Very well, Lady Sansa. Do what you feel is best. But promise me you will not put yourself in danger, not even for Jon’s sake. I could not look him in the eye if you came to harm.”

“We must be going,” said No-Eyes. Sansa thought he was staring at her from behind his blindfold. “The pyramid of Nakloz is a massive place, but we will be missed if we are gone for long.”

“And that will bring questions,” Daenerys said. “And questions will ruin everything. Sansa Stark, Ser Barristan, I wish you luck.” She pulled a hood over her head and headed towards the door.

Ser Barristan took a step. “Your Grace, I have heard that you came with dragons. True dragons, of scale and wing and flame. Is that true?” There was something in the Kingsguard’s voice that Sansa had never heard before. He almost sounded a man half his age, and there was a small glow in his blue eyes.

From beneath the shadow of her cloak, Daenerys Targaryen smiled. “Yes, Ser. Know that the dragons have returned to the world. Three dragons for three riders, just as when Aegon the Dragon united Westeros forever.”

 

**THE BROKEN WOLF**

 

After Maester Luwin read the letter to him, Bran insisted that he do so a second time. “I need to be absolutely sure. Tyrion Lannister is coming _here_?” All of Tywin Lannister’s children were dead, or near enough of them. Stannis Baratheon was ruthless in his taking of King’s Landing. Between the Stormlanders and the Essosi sellswords, King’s Landing didn’t stand a chance. There was talk of a green fire, and a massive chain that was lifted above the waters…but even then…

Maester Luwin waved the letter. “You heard what I said, Bran. Lord Manderly discovered Tyrion Lannister on a ship of sellsails.”

“And why would he be so far north?” The Lannisters had no friends that far past the Neck.

The Maester frowned. “You heard my words, Bran. He claimed he would take the Black. Still, I have doubts as to his trustworthiness.”

“He made me that saddle,” Bran said. “So that I could ride.”

Luwin considered that for a moment. “As you say, My Prince.” He always seemed to say that right before he argued with Bran. “But that was before his family struck against yours. Things have changed since then.”

“I know,” Bran said. He pulled on the wool blanket was around his legs. It didn’t keep his legs warm. Bran couldn’t feel anything on his legs, cold or heat. But he saw that it was slipping, and he didn’t want Hodor or one of the servants bend down to pick it up. “But the Lannisters are done. Everyone knows that.”

“Does Tyrion Lannister know that?”

Maybe. “Of course. He is our prisoner. What can he expect to do?”

“I do not know Bran. That is why you must be careful. Remember our position.”

Stannis Baratheon was to the south, but no king has ever been able to overwhelm Moat Cailin. Bran was always interested in Maester Luwin’s lessons about the old histories of the North, and he never recalled a time when anyone had fought their way past the Neck.

The threat wasn’t the enemies outside the North. It was the ones in it that Maester Luwin was concerned about. The Umbers and Karstarks had been quiet, and the Dreadfort had not stirred. That just made Bran worry all the more. Everything was quiet before Theon Greyjoy came, and that almost ended in disaster.

Bran almost wished the Boltons would do something, just so that he would have cause to put the Dreadfort to the torch. That way he would know that the North was safe. But all the quiet…Bran hated it. It was just like his dreams. The Three Eyed Crow had not visited him ever since Theon was dragged away in fetters.

_What did I do wrong? I defended my home, protected my people. Winterfell is safe._

Ser Rodrik had arrived just a week past. “Lord Mormont is dead,” the old Master-at-Arms reported. “He was a good man, My Prince, and the Mormonts were forever loyal to your house. He would be missed.”

“And has the Night’s Watch elected a new commander?” Bran knew there was a chance they hadn’t. He remembered once that the Watch went without a commander for a year. It had to be a majority.

Ser Rodrik nodded his head. “Donal Noye had been chosen.” Bran had never heard that name before, nor the family. “Before the man was elected, I was told he was the forger of the hammer that ended Rhaegar Targaryen.”

And King Robert’s brother was the enemy of the North. “A Baratheon man is the Lord Commander on the Wall?”

Ser Rodrik gave a shaking of his head. “I would worry not about Donal Noye, My Prince. The Night’s Watch has never survived when it turned against the realm. If their Targaryen Maester didn’t rise the Night’s Watch up for his family, I doubt the Lord Commander will do the same.”

Bran blinked. “Their Maester is a Targaryen?” Bran was told that all of the Targaryens were dead or in exile. “Does he know of Daenerys and my brother?”

“I had not thought to ask. The man is old and blind. His time will come. What concerns me is how the brothers of the Watch claim is the cause of Lord Mormont’s death.” Ser Rickard gave a shaking of his head and said, “They claim he was killed by a dead man.”

“What?”

Rodrik Cassel chuckled. “That’s what they said. I would put no faith in those words, My Prince. Being on the edge of the world for so long is said to dull one’s mind.”

“Did they not show you anything? Surely they backed up their claims with evidence.”

“They did show me the tower that Lord Commander Mormont died in. It collapsed on him. That’s what killed him, not any dead rising from their graves.”

If Jojen was there, he would have said something sagely. “Did they not say anything else? Nothing peculiar of the Lord Commander’s death?”

Ser Rodrik scratched at his cheeks. “There was a sword in his chest, they claimed. That was weeks ago, so even if his body had not been sent to Bear Isle, the boy would have—“

Bran knew what happened to bodies after they died. He dismissed the Ser after that. What was going on at the Wall, the true identity of Reek and Ramsay Bolton…Bran had trouble sleeping. Even if the dreams would not come to him, Bran rustled in his bed. His stomach would twist and turn, and he would pull the furs all over him, but Bran had slept less and less as the months rolled by.

Maester Luwin noticed. He always saw the things that Bran tried to hide. “There are ways I can help,” he had said. “Herbs can be gathered and brewed, poultices that could be delivered from Oldtown.”

“I am fine, Maester.”

As much as Bran wanted to deny it, Maester Luwin knew better. “Fine is not you getting paler, Bran, nor is it shadows growing beneath your eyes. If your mother was here—“

“My mother is not here, Maester, and for all your talks of her being home soon, she still has not returned home. With my brother gone, I am the lord of Winterfell. Counsel me in ruling, I’ll accept that. But don’t tell me how I am doing.”

“Is that a command, My Prince?”

“Yes,” Bran had said. “I am commanding you.”

When Tyrion Lannister arrived, there was a thick gray sky looming over the hills. There was no rain, so the skies weren’t as ominous as they could have been. Still, Lord Tyrion was possessing at least a small tremble in his boots. _No, not Lord Tyrion. He is just Tyrion Lannister now. His name means nothing._ The last time he had was in Winterfell, he was a guest. But now he was just a prisoner of the North.

Bran wanted to think that would make their encounter easier, but he knew well enough how a cornered wolf would act. A lion would be no different, even if he was shorter than Bran by a head.

If Tyrion Lannister was afraid, he did not show it. Bran had word sent that they would not meet in Great Hall, but rather in Father’s solar. _Give the impression he will not be harmed, but also that I am the lord of this keep. Not a crippled boy._ Bran heard the ringing of the shackles long before the guards permitted him into the solar. It was a cool day, so Bran had the fire lit. The hearth was blazing, with the logs crackling and splitting under the heat. It made the room glow like copper.

Bran had almost winced when he saw Tyrion Lannister. There was mention of a scar in the letter, but those words did no justice to the truth. His face was a ruin, a wide array of half healed scars and peeled flesh. Where was once a nose, Bran could only see a thin sliver of flesh. Whenever the Lannister would take in a breath, he would quiver.

For a moment, Bran felt sorry for him.

 _Be as Robb and Father would_. Bran could hear his legs slap against the cushions of the chair as he shuffled. Bran thought of folding his fingers together at his lip, but he couldn’t imagine Father or Robb doing that. Not when treating with a lord. So he rested his hands on both arms of the chair. He felt the grooves of the howling wolves.

“Tyrion Lannister.” Bran heard his voice crack and whine. He coughed. “Was your journey pleasant?”

“Pleasant.” There was a devilish smile stretched across his face. “That is not the word I would use, My Lord.”

“You are here in one piece.”

“That we can agree.”

Lord Cley Cerwyn raised his head, as if the Imp’s presence alone threatened his pride. “Bran Stark is a prince of Winterfell. You will give him the proper honors.”

Tyrion Lannister dipped his head. “Of course. Forgive me, Prince. There are so many kings and heirs these days. One finds it difficult to keep track of them all.”

“Not in the North,” said Maester Luwin. “There is only one king here, and his name is Stark.” Bran was thankful the Greatjon was in the south with Robb. He would have roared something out, and rattled Bran’s eardrums. Tyrion Lannister gave a polite smile. His green and black eyes were simmering against the light of the fire. “The Prince would like to ask you a few questions.”

“Like has nothing to do with it,” Tyrion said. He raised up his hands, and the chains chimed an iron tune. “The Prince commands and I have to obey. I could stand on one leg if you would prefer. That would be a sight.”

Lord Cerwyn frowned. “Watch yourself, dwarf.”

Brann rasped the chair with his knuckle. “Tyrion, the ravens say that Stannis Baratheon has won King’s Landing.”

“That is true.”

“It is said that your sister, who was Robert’s queen, is dead, along with both of your nephews.”

Bran could see there was some hurt in Tyrion’s mismatched eyes. “Yes, they are dead. From what I heard, my kingly nephew died from a crossbow belt to the neck. He always did love that crossbow.”

Joffrey was the reason why Father was dead. His demands for loyalty was why Robb marched south to begin with. Bran would not mourn for him…but would Tyrion Lannister? “The gods will give them the peace they deserve.” _Was that princely of me? To walk the path between offering condolences and retribution?_ Father would have said something wiser, Bran knew. “How are Arya and Sansa?”

Tyrion Lannister blinked. “Your sisters?”

“Yes,” he said. Bran could feel something cold grip at his stomach. There was always that quiet fear, and he had to push it away whenever Rickon would ask of Arya or Sansa. “Arya and Sansa.”

“You know them,” pressed Maester Luwin. “You have seen them.” Tyrion Lannister nodded. “We have not had a raven from King Stannis regarding them. By now we would have thought he would offer them for ransom, at the very least. But we have heard no word. Perhaps the offer went to King Robb, but in the letter saying of his latest movements, His Grace made no hint of such an offer.”

“So I ask again,” Brann said, “how are Arya and Sansa?”

Tyrion Lannister looked between them. “It’s good to know that there are some secrets I am very good at hiding,”

“Do not press us,” warned Lord Cley.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Tyrion looked at Bran. “We don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Precisely what I said, Prince. I have not seen either of your sisters.”

Maester Luwin and Cley Cerwyn gaped at each other. “Where are they?” Bran demanded. “What happened?”

“For once,” Tyrion said, “I was not the disappointing child. By the time I arrived in King’s Landing to be Joffrey’s Hand, they were both gone. Your sister Arya vanished in the days after your father was captured and Sansa…well, I was told that one night she was in her bed, and by morning she was gone.”

“Gone,” gasped Maester Luwin. “Gone? Just gone? How is that possible?”

“I tried to answer that same question, Maester. But by the time I arrived, the trail was cold. Prince Bran, both of your sisters were nowhere to be found.”

Bran shook his head. “Are they alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then they are not dead. Maester Luwin,” he said with a turn of his head, “you will write to my brother at once.”

“Of course. And what should I say concerning…”

Bran knew what the Maester implied. Tyrion Lannister was an enemy of Bran’s family. He helped Joffrey, who had Father murdered. That should have made things easy and simple. Send him off to the Wall, let him serve the realm that way. Bran remembered the last time Tyrion Lannister was in Winterfell. He arrived with nothing but plans for a saddle. Tyrion allowed Bran to ride again. “Prince,” Tyrion said, “have you heard of your brother Jon?”

“Jon Snow?” It had seemed years since anyone had spoken of Father’s bastard son. “What has happened to him?”

Tyrion shook his head. “Probably as much as you have. He got that Targaryen girl with child, from what we heard.”

The Maester looked at Bran. “The same was heard here. We also heard lies of Lord Eddard wanting to place Jon and Daenerys Targaryen on the Iron Throne.”

The Lannister gave out a snort. “Agreed on that much. Everything I heard of your Lord Father suggested that was the last thing he would do.”

“Of course not,” Cley Cerwyn. “Lord Stark was a man of honor. He would never think of betraying Robert Baratheon. If only the King thought the same.”

“Talking of ifs and how abouts will keep us here all night.” Tyrion shuffled and his chains rattled. “And if you don’t mind me saying, I would rather not be like this until morning.”

Lord Cley considered that. “My Prince, what would you have us do with him? He was bound for the Wall…but he has not taken the oath. His fate is in your hands.”

Bran wanted to say right then to send Tyrion away. But he remembered something that Father had told Robb, of how a Lord must remember everything a man has done. All of his virtues and all of his sins must be weighed on the scale. And Tyrion had only defended his family. Before that, he had made a saddle for Bran. “No. It’s in his.”

 

**THE GOLDEN LION**

 

The day was hot, Jaime was sweating more than a Dornish whore, Addam had just explained what was going on, and Jaime was driving him up a wall by involving himself in it. Which was pretty much by Jaime’s design. Addam was one of the few people on a very short list that Jaime would be willing to die for, and that list had gotten shorter by several heads ever since Eddard Stark had lost his.  But Jaime was sick and tired of just sitting on saddle for weeks on end. The first chance Jaime had to taste some miniscule of civilization, no matter how backwatered, he was going to take it.

“Jaime, by all the Seven Gods and all of their crystals, you are going to be the death of me. No.”

“Addam, that is where I have to disagree. I _am_ going with you on this little rendezvous, and there is no changing on the matter.”

Little Abel Banefort, being the good and dutiful squire that he was, sat between them without raising a peep. He sat on his little chestnut pony, and was the very image of silent and unseen, but listening. No doubt he was debating on whether to agree with his ser, or with the son of Tywin Lannister. The best answer was to side with no one at all.

Marbrand frowned, and his eyebrows creased a hundred fold. “No. _No._ Absolutely not. Under no circumstances—“

Quite naturally, within the hour Jaime was riding into Two Rivers with Addam, Abel, and a few other trusted swords. “I do not know you managed to wiggle yourself into this mess.”

“My charm and good lucks?”

“Doubtful.”

Two Rivers was a backwater town that was more off the beaten road than Addam would have liked, which made it the perfect rallying point. It was _just_ close enough to the river that it would be a reasonable drinking hole for any traveler, but too deep into the mainland to attract the attention of a galley. And nobody had any doubts that Riverrun had sent one on their tail.

Jaime did not need long to guess what it was that the people of Two Rivers did. They leeched. Well, there was a great deal more to it than that, but that also wasn’t so far from the truth. The town rested on the intersection of two rivers whose names Jaime couldn’t be bothered to learn. That meant they were a trading hub of sorts. Loggers would drive their wooden corpses up the river, carriages of the nobility traversing from one castle to the next, farmers cutting their losses before their food spoiled; all would benefit off of Two Rivers. The town just had to be hospitable and profitable enough to attract attention, and the money would just flow into their pockets.

Father would have hated them. He had more than a few damning words for the “coin tenderers” of the realm, who made money by simply being in the right place to profit off of the lords of the realm. Jaime would have loved to say how Lannisport was not much different than the trading towns like Two Rivers.

But death by glares was not the fate that Jaime wanted for himself, so he always kept quiet.

“There,” Addam said. There was an inn made up of several floors. It had a nice porch out front, and several of the rooms possessed a balcony. Whomever owned the inn was well acquainted with the company of nobility. A wooden boar hung from a post, and the words “The Hungry Hog” was carved into it. “Now,” Addam said as he flicked copper into the eager hands of the stableboy, “who are you?”

Jaime narrowed his eyes. “I know who I am.” He remembered the one concession that Addam managed to force out of him. “Just a mercenary trying to find his way home. And not end up dead.”

“That’s right.” Addam stepped up to the door, and Jaime could already smell the faint odor of barley and spices. “So let’s get this over with.”

The day was bright and dry, but they did not arrive at _Hungry Hog_ as such. Addam had them dip their soles in mud; they had to be travelers with swords, not knights and soldiers who possessed luxuries for the road. When they stepped through the door, Jaime smelled the cooking of onions and bread, and he had no shame in admitting how his lips watered.

An attending boy stood in their way. “Leave your boots and shoes at the door, _My Lords_. We would not have mud and dirt tracked into the inn, _My Lords_.” The boy had spunk, and Jaime found that amusing. Reminded him all too much of Tyrion, who showed fear to no man, save for their lord father. And even Sandor Clegane showed Lord Tywin the proper respects.

They walked into the _Hungry Hog_ in their dry hoses. “I see no one,” Addam said. Jaime would say that was not entirely true. There was a minstrel with a voice like a dying hare in the corner, and there were some travelers with swords leaning against on a table, as well as a man with the star of the Seven hanging from his bobbling neck. But in regards to Addam’s men that were meant to converge upon the _Hungry Hog,_ none of them were in sight.

“Buy a room for the day,” Jaime said. “It is too early for us to just have ale and bread. The innkeep would ask questions otherwise. Or think them and keep to himself, which is a good deal worse.” Raised questions could be dispelled; the silent ones festered like a boil, and Jaime wanted none to rupture.

As soon as they found the innkeep, Jaime wondered if the name was for the inn or its owner. Once Addam traded coin for a room, fat and jolly Henrik provided a smile of crooked teeth. “Thank ya m’lord, thank ya,” even though neither Jaime nor Addam had addressed themselves as of noble birth. “You will be pleased to know – you _will_ be – that we have tranches of bread and soup for dinner. Hot, delightful onion soup, with cheese.”

Henrik was all smiles, and he had two chins and a belly as wide as a barrel, with hands so hairy that one could mistake him for a bear. His laugh would have amused a child, and Jaime did notice a certain glint in Abel Banefort’s eyes.

If it were raining outside, Jaime would have thanked the Seven and all their septons for the room. It was dry and warm, and Jaime already began to slip his coat off. “So, we are at Two Rivers. You said your men would be waiting for you.”

“Two weeks, I said. Then we converge here.”

Jaime hrmed to that. “It has been two weeks.” Two weeks too long by his reckoning. The race from Riverrun had transformed into an exhausting slog. Addam had divided his four hundred men across the Riverlands, putting it to flame so that Edmure Tully would be forced to divide his attention. That was great for springing Jaime free, but terrible for making sure he would be able to reach Casterly Rock in one piece. Any holdfast that learned of him would devour him with swords and men that would love to see the Kingslayer in chains.

The trek was slow, and cautious, and all those things Jaime swallowed, no matter how bitter they tasted. He felt like some rogue, a bandit in the night. _The Kingswood Brotherhood._ But patience was said to be a virtue, no matter how fleeting it seemed for him, so Jaime did as he was told.

But now it’s been two weeks, and they were trapped in the middle of the Riverlands. Less than a hundred men, and the rest of Marbrand’s had not returned as scheduled.

“They will come,” Addam said, defiant.

 _And if they don’t?_ But Jaime did not raise that point. It would not do them any good to cause a stir in the middle of an inn.  “Then we wait. A day. We can’t afford any more than that, Addam.”

Marbrand nodded, a reluctant agreement. Addam Marbrand was not the sort of man to carelessly abandon those under his command. But between Jaime Lannister and them, the choice was clear. “A day. Then we push for the Golden Tooth, as fast we can. And hope.”

 _Hope is for the foolish and the desperate._ Those were Father’s words echoing in his head. Jaime was not foolish, but he was desperate. Desperate to survive, desperate for vengeance, desperate to taste Stannis Baratheon’s hot heart. Jaime heard that Stannis had taken a fiery heart as his sigil. He wondered what a flaming heart would taste like.

“Stay here,” Addam commanded as he made for the door.

“And just where are you going?”

“Out. Someone needs to be on the lookout, in case any of my men show up. And you’re the one who has been longing for a bed all these weeks.”

Months, but Jaime didn’t mention that. The last thing he wanted was to stay cooped up. “You plan on leaving me in this room alone?”

“Not alone.” Addam smiled. “Abel, make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

The boy gulped, and his eyes grew three sizes. “Me?” But before Abel could beg for an explanation from his ser, Addam was out the door. He and Jaime shared a glance. “Well, ah, Ser Addam, he was very…insistent, that we—“

Jaime found it curious, how all it took to turn Abel Banefort into a stutterer was to be left alone with the Kingslayer. “I’m going to bed.” As much as Jaime wanted to say otherwise, he did miss the luxuries of a mattress and a pillow. “Make sure none but Addam come in.”

The boy gulped again. Jaime wondered if there was some frog blood in the Banefort line. “Me? How should—“

“With a sword, I would imagine.” Jaime tore off his shirt and let it fall to the ground in a heap. Sleep came to him far quicker than it should have. He was a knight, and a knight should always be weary, even in peace, and especially when he was fleeing through enemy territory. But it had been too long since he had an actual bed to fall into, and sleep came too easily for him.

At first, the darkness was warm and inviting. He knew the shadows and the sound of his footfalls. It was home, the dens of Casterly Rock, the hall of heroes. Jaime saw nothing but the shadows, but he could hear. Fuck sight, Jaime was _home_ again, the home he knew when he was a home, the home he knew when everything was simple and right, when Father and Tyrion and Cersei lived. The home when all was well.

It was Casterly Rock. He never should have left. None of them should have ridden out into the east, towards Harrenhal and King’s Landing. Jaime called out, shouted into the darkness, but all he could hear was his own voice, echoing, dying in the distance.

And then he felt the chill, the cold that nibbed at his fingers and toes, and it was then that Jaime realized that he was alone. That wasn’t right. It was Casterly Rock, the biggest castle in all the Seven Kingdoms, the golden halls that were carved out of the mountain, the impenetrable keep. Casterly Rock would never be abandoned. Never.

There was no light, no glimmering gemstones, no gold in the halls. That would have put a fear in most men, but most men were not kingslayers. Jaime made his way forward. He would find the light, stairs, lifts, and put an end to this nonsense.

Jaime found none of those things. That was when the fear started to set in. Give him a sword, put his enemy before him, and he would know himself. But the darkness, shadows, the distant noises of water drops? How does one fight such a thing as that? How can one fight something with form? _Am I going to die in this place?_

Then he heard a voice he had almost forgot. “Jaime.” It calmed him. But it couldn’t be, not that voice. She was dead. For years and years. “Jaime.”

The light came upon him, so swiftly that he was blinded. Jaime squinted, and put his hand over his face, peeking through the slits between his fingers. It was all a blur at first, but then the colors came into his vision, and he could make out his surroundings. The crimson color of the drapes, the carved out walls, the carpets…

He stepped forward, and felt the crunching beneath his feet. The chamber was littered with bones. The bones of lions. Jaime’s breath was hitched in his lung. It all felt wrong. “Mother?” He could see her, or the behind of her at least. She was sitting in a chair, facing the fires of the hearth. The bones were leading to her.

“Jaime, it has been so long. Come to me.”

He followed, leaving the darkness behind him. He could almost see the golden curls of Mother’s hair, and smell the sweet perfume that would roll off her skin. Then when he was a step away, she turned.

It was not the face of his mother. He thought he knew her voice…but it was Cersei. Cersei, perfect Cersei, his other half, the woman that made him whole, the mother of his children, his sister. “I prayed for your safe return, brother.”

Cersei rose up from the chair, and the bones of lions shattered beneath her fleet. The shards ripped through her toes, but Cersei didn’t care or notice. “I prayed for you. Did you pray once to me? Where were you, my brother, while the poison killed me and your son?”

“Trapped. I was at Riverrun. I did—“

“Nothing.” The word was ice, as sharp as a dagger, cutting at Jaime. “You did nothing. Father was butchered, and you did nothing. I had to take my own life. I _had_ to. And you gave me no other recourse. Even Tyrion. You loved the little monster, and what did you do to save him?”

“I wanted to. Cersei, believe me.”

“No. I don’t.”

He was awoken when Abel nudged at his foot. “My Lord.” The squire’s voice was a whisper. Then it grew louder, more insistent. “My Lord.”

“Hrm?” If he had more of his senses, Jaime would have said something about what he’d do if it wasn’t Addam. But all he managed out was that senseless noise. He raised himself on right elbow, and pulled his long hair away from his face with his left hand. “What, Abel?” His voice was heavy and sluggish, like a man that had just been awakened from a deep rest. His head felt as heavy as an anvil.

“Dinner, My Lord. Ser Addam wanted me to fetch you.”

Jaime groaned, and debated on if sleeping or filling his gut would bring him more satisfaction. He couldn’t rightfully decide, so he just settled on making sure Addam didn’t have another reason to hit him with the butt of a spear. “I’m up, I’m up. Let me get my shirt…”

They came under assault by the smell and allure of food on the stairwell, and by the time they made their way to the main floor, it was a full out siege. His stomach roared in protest, and as Jaime looked on at a man sipping on his onion soup, his jaw watered.

Addam clapped at the table. “Come on,” he said. “Quickly. Time to eat.” There was a man sitting next to him, with his head all shaved and his face as sharp as a spear point. There was a knowing glance shared amongst them. _He is one of yours._

Jaime ate more easily with that though in his mind. It was not a cold day by any means, but the onion broth put a fire in his gut that was sorely needed. His wits were returning, and with him, his sense of suspicion. Addam trusted this man, but that didn’t mean Jaime had to.  “Do you have a name?”

“Mal, if it would please you.” Mal had a sharp smile, and an even sharper glint in his eyes.

 _This man is trouble._ Probably why Addam kept him around. “Where are the others?”

“Coming, if they can.”

Jaime liked that not. “And if they can’t?”

“Then, to be frank, they are beyond our concerns.” Mal looked towards Addam. “We should leave at last light. Regardless.”

There was a moment’s silence from Addam, but it may as well have been an eternity. “Very well. Last light.”

With that, there was no more need for words. So Jaime ate and drank in silence. Jaime feared that some wandering noble would traverse into the _Hungry Hog_ and recognize him, no matter how senseless that fear was. All of Stark’s banners were in the Reach, preparing for a war with Stannis Baratheon. What would they be doing in the Riverlands? Perhaps some of the Riverlords would be on the lookout for a blonde haired man, but that was still trying to find a straw in a cornfield. Jaime was not the only man of golden head in the Riverlands, and any man on the lookout would not think to interrogate every man that had a resemblance to the heir of Casterly Rock, no matter how fleeting that resemblance could be.

Still, it didn’t hurt to be safe. _Keep your heads down, voice low, and don’t do anything that Tyrion would._ If the rumors were true, Tyrion had been kidnapped in another traveler’s inn much like this one, and again in the Riverlands to boot. Jaime could not make a guess to those circumstances, but he would imagine that Tyrion’s mouth had more than a hint to do with it.

Jaime tried to think what their course should be. Addam had a plan, but it could change in a moment. Gather up his men at the _Hungry Hog_ , that was well and good, but how should they cut into the Westerlands? No doubt that the Edmure the Floppy Fish had sent men to march on the western border. They would not dare dredge near the Golden Tooth, but they wouldn’t need to. Just enough men to make passage up the goldroad slow and cumbersome would give Ser Robin Ryger enough time to catch up. And no matter how good Addam’s men were, Jaime didn’t trust those odds.

Perhaps they need not go down the Tumblestone towards the goldroad. Mayhaps they should go north, cut across the river, and hit for the mountains. That was a long path, perhaps much longer than Addam had accounted for, and no doubt his stores would be struggling towards the end, and there were little holdfasts save for the Banefort. But no doubt little Abel would love to be home again after so long away, and it’s not like any of the trouts would expect them to take the long way.

But Jaime did not much favor starving, and even if the Westerlands were home, home was never known for its bounties, and the northern mountains were the worst of them all. How many would starve towards the end? How many would abandon before the end? How many would turn on each other?

 _So the choice is shit and piss._ He could think on all that later. Right now, there was onion soup.

The minstrel was still in the corner, and he was still playing. Some simpleton had given him some coppers to spout out “The Bear and the Maiden Fair”, and he was about to reach the final stanza. The final, exhausting, ear scouring, stanza. Jaime wondered how effective it would be to stuff his ears with bread.

Probably not very well.

On the far side of the room, just below the cloud of steam and heat that rose out from the kitchens, were a pair of men, as ugly and uninspiring as any man could be. No maidens would swoon after them; their noses were dislodged, their chins soft and pimply, and they had eyes fit for a pig. And their voices had the mud speak of those that were born and toiled beneath the sun, the argot that slurred and mispronounced every word that left their lips. On top of all that, they were _loud_ , and Jaime heard every word they said.

He ignored them.

Until they started to speak of the “king.”

There was the bald one, with a bush that hung from his chin. “So,” he slurped with a mouthful of soup, “I hear that the king is up in Highgarden.”

“Gone off with his Tyrell wife. He buggered up the Lannisters real good. The Westermen will never threaten us again.”

Jaime hadn’t realized that his hands had clutched into a fist, grazing against the table. Not until Addam gave him a soft kick at the leg. He said nothing, but Addam’s eyes were full of sympathy.

Jaime saw saliva drip from the man’s bottom lip. “Aye, but he should still come south soon. He goes to Riverrun, and _everyone_ will want to come. Think of how many radishes I could sell then!”

“No one will want to buy radishes at Winterfell.”

“I know!”

_Fuck you and your radishes._

Jaime got up from his seat, and Addam’s eyes grew seven times. “Jaime, what are you doing?”

“I’m just going to have a chat.”

“Jaime, no. _No.”_ Jaime didn’t listen. “Oh, the Seven preserve me.” Jaime could almost see the circles that Addam was rubbing into his forehead.

The two bungheads must have had dirt and slime in their ears. They didn’t hear Jaime’s steps until he was towering over them. They looked up at him, their pig eyes widening, and Jaime wondered if they knew who they were looking at. The son of Tywin Lannister, a man worth respecting.

But just as soon as they saw him, their tiny eyes hardened and narrowed. “What do you want?”

Jaime did not wait for an invitation. There was an empty stool just sitting there, unused, and Jaime took his place. Unwanted, to be sure, going by the looks of his newest drinking companions, but Jaime didn’t care about that. Or what they thought of him. He was a Lannister, even if they didn’t know it.

“To drink. To Robb Stark. And his Tyrell wife.”

Jaime could see the mole on the left’s chin. It had two small hairs growing out of it. “You have no beer.”

“True! I drank mine already. Horrible thirst, you must understand. Horrible drink too. But nevermind all that – I heard you speak of Robb Stark.”

“The King,” growled the one on the right, whose teeth were especially crooked. “He fucked up the Lannisters real good.”

It was an effort for Jaime to stay silent. “Yes,” he said, “that he did. And Stannis Baratheon too. Let’s not forget _that_ king.”

“The King will bugger up Stannis too. They say he is a fire worshiper. That he fucks a fiery whore, and offers a child to the fire every moon.”

Jaime had to snort to that. Stannis Baratheon was many things, but a murderer of children he was not. He had never heard a word of protest from the Prince of Dragonstone regarding the fates of Rhaegar’s children, but he never needed to. His stone gaze and grinding teeth were all that needed to be said on the subject. “That may be an exaggeration, friend.”

“I heard it from—“

“Whomever it was, he probably heard it from some other fellow, and that fellow. But no matter; Robb Stark will bugger them all.”

“THE KING IN THE NORTH!” The man with the crooked teeth let out a yell, but all Jaime got was a ringing in his ears and a tip of nausea from the man’s breath. “Oh, what I would have given to be there.” _You would have ended up dead in a minute._ “After what the Lannisters dead—“

Jaime had enough of that. “Where were you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

The man’s fat lips hung. “Well, I was…I’m old, you understand. Not _old_ , but too old.”

Jaime squinted. “As you say. Not old, but too old. Did you give them any good wishes?”

“Good wishes?”

“The boys, who went out to die.”

The man licked his lips. “They killed Lannisters.”

 _They didn’t kill me._ “Of course they did. And the Lannisters killed them. I have seen those Westermen fight. Those boys that went out, they died on the best steel in all the Seven Kingdoms. They will be eight-and-ten forever. You must envy them. Where were you, when they were drying? Oh, that’s right. You’re too old to fight. But not old enough to celebrate their deaths.” Jaime rose up. The two men were staring, and something between hatred and shame danced in their eyes. “Thank you for the drink.”

Addam would not be too pleased by that display. Keep your head down, stay quiet, slip away, those were Addam’s laws. And in just a minute’s time, Jaime had managed to break them all. There was a hard glare in Addam’s eyes, and he would seethe and growl when Jaime returned, no doubt. But then his eyes went wide, and there was a flicker of fear that forced Jaime to turn around.

Jaime felt the man’s shadow on him before he saw him. The man looked like half a savage, with a height that hovered over Jaime, a hooked nose, and a pit in his eyes. He was hungry; Jaime could see that in his gaze. But it wasn’t the hunger for game and wine. The man wanted something, and he would not give up until he had it. The whole world could burn before that.

“You do not speak with the voice of a Riverlander.”

 _Neither do you._ Jaime had spent enough time in the company of Eddard Stark to know the accent of the North. “Mayhaps. Mayhaps not. What does it matter to you friend?”

If gazes alone could dig holes, Jaime would have felt a crater in his chest. “Friend.” The word came out half a question, half an accusation. The man’s beard was black and white, and Jaime could smell the dirt and sweat off him. “You are a far way from home.”

“If you fight, do it outside!” Henrik’s voiced was loud and clear, and offered no room for argument. “And I promise you, your rooms are voided if you damage my inn!”

The man cared not for Henrik’s words. The innkeep could have been Robert Baratheon – and truth be told he _did_ have the belly for it – and the man would not have moved. That did put a chill in Jaime, but only for a moment. He smiled and pointed a thumb towards the door. “I would prefer not to lose my room. Shall we take this outside?”

“We shall take this here.” Jaime could see men rising from their seats. Some of them were Marbrand’s men, but the others Jaime could not place. “I know who you are.”

That was not good. The inn was too crowded. A silence had wormed its way into the inn. He could hear the fires crackling in the kitchen. Chairs creaked against the floor, and Jaime could see the dozen tiny glints of steel. “I don’t think you do. I am just a traveling sword.”

“A sword, and traveling, but you are no sellsword.” The man’s teeth were crooked and sharp, like a hound rearing to strike. “Kingslayer, do you know me?”

In that moment, Jaime thanked the Warrior a thousand times for the sword that Addam gave him. It was tied to his side, and Jaime would have it out in a moment. “If I was he, I would say no.”

The man flexed his fingers; into a fist, and released. The roaring of his leather grove was like the deep growls of a hunting hound. “Their names were Torrhen and Eddard. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Illyn Payne killed Eddard Stark, not me.”

“My _sons_. You killed my _sons_. You came for Robb Stark and they stopped you, and it only costed them their lives.”

And in that moment, Jaime knew. He had never met the man, but the white sun of Karstark flashed in his eyes. “Swords!” Jaime called out. “Swords!”

 

**THE PIG OF HORN HILL**

 

“It would appear that King Robb has wed Lady Margaery Tyrell and made her his queen.” Sam had already read the letter to Master Aemon, but as always, he preferred to feel the parchment between his fingers after Sam had relayed it. The Maester opened and closed his mouth, as if he was tasting the words. What _would_ words taste like? Sam imagined something akin to ink and old paper. “What do you make of that, Samwell?”

Sam gaped. “Me? I…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Aemon seemed particularly amused by that revelation. “Nothing at all? I thought you were born in the Reach.”

“I was,” Sam said. The only thing that Father had found pleasing in Sam was how quickly he would take to the sigils and heraldry of the realm. “I…Father – Lord Tarly, I mean - he never thought highly of Lord Mace. Called him an overgrown flowerpot.”

The blind maester narrowed his eyes. “An overgrown flowerpot?” He huffed. “Words do not seem to be your father’s forte. I could think of better ways to describe Mace Tyrell than by naming him a _flowerpot_.”

“Lord Mace stole Father’s glory.” That’s what Father would say, or mutter, when he thought none was around to listen. But Sam had learned to be quiet, so he could hear what Father intended to do to him. That didn’t help him when Father announced he would take the black, or suffer a terrible hunting accident. “He always said so. The maesters put down that Lord Mace routed Robert Baratheon at the battle of Summerhall, even though it was Father in truth.”

“And what of Lord Mace’s children. What of this queen that Robb Stark has married?”

Sam shivered. A cold wind slipped in through the cracks of the maester’s tower, and he could hear the foundations wheeze in response. “My father once said that Margaery Tyrell was her grandmother.”

The Maester took his time in responding. He reclined against his chair, and thrummed his thin fingers on the wooden arm. “I knew something of Olenna Redwyne. My brother wrote to me, asking what he thought of matching her with Daeron. His youngest son, understand. I wrote back and said it would be a good match, a powerful union between the crown and the Reach. And I heard a little something of this spirited woman; how fierce she was, in every way a woman could be. Not to be unmatched. I do not imagine she took Daeron’s breaking of her betrothal lightly.”

“Is she a friend of House Targaryen?”

Aemon humphed at that. “You are thinking of my great-niece, Daenerys.” The Maester let out a long sigh, and there was a weariness that shook his voice. “I have to wonder. I want to hope. There is an urge in me to believe…that she escaped the Dothraki with this Jon Snow, that they have eluded the assassins’ knives. But for them to come to Westeros with an army? That is a fool’s hope, Samwell. Whether Olenna Redwyne and her daughter is a friend of House Targaryen is of little consequence.”

Sam licked his lips. There were hard and sensitive, thanks to the morning frost. They often broke during the day, leaving small and painful cuts. There were ointments Aemon had provided, but they seemed to do little good. “But Robb Stark is Jon Snow’s brother. Excuse me for asking, Maester, but why are you asking me of Margaery Tyrell?”

“Because, I think we need to write to this King in the North. Donal Noye is doing what one man can, but forgive me for saying so, but he was not groomed for power. He is too cautious, without the ambitions needed to do what must be done. And even if he did, the Night’s Watch alone could not stand the tide that comes.”

The Wildlings were on the march. They had been coming for months now. Some of the brothers whispered ever since the old Lord Commander had died, ever since the dead started to rise, Mance Rayder’s horde crept on the south. Whatever outriders that Donal Noye had sent out did not return. The Night’s Watch was being boxed in, and there was a fear that had shadowed over them all. _How can one thousand stand against so many?_ They didn’t even know which of the clans Mance Rayder had gathered under his banner. Some even whispered of giants.

“This King in the North must defend his realm, but the how of it is not easy. Moat Cailin is controlled by the Ironborne. He could make use of his queen’s Redwyne relations. Their fleet is nothing to disregard, but the Iron Islands do stand in their way. The Iron Fleet would fall, but not quickly, and not easily. Still.” The Maester sighed. “This king must come. We cannot defend the Wall alone. The Night’s Watch was…so much more than it is now.”

“When you joined the brotherhood?” Sam asked, hoping.

But the old man just rocked his head. “No, not even then. Not as terrible as it is now, but still. The knights were few, and the rapers and the desperate were many. Retrieve the paper and the inkwell, Sam. You must write.”

After that was done, the Maester dismissed Sam. Sam almost didn’t want to leave the tower. As cracking as the stones may be, there was still a hint of warmth. But the outside air was biting and cold, and sent shivers through his bones. The Starks would say that winter was coming, but it seemed for Sam and the rest of the Night’s Watch that it had already arrived. _How do the Wildlings survive it? They are born into cold and die in it._ He wondered what a savage would say when they saw a green flower. Perhaps they would eat it, thinking that it was food.

 _Well, the Maester said I could go, but he never said I had to leave._ With that bit of mischief running through him, Sam made his down the spiraling stairs of the tower, the wood creaking as he went. The archives were held behind two massive wooden doors in the basement. Undecorated, unadorned, but big and mighty. When Sam would lean on the wood, it would groan against the hinges.

As soon as Sam stepped through, he could only smell old paper. He lifted the taper, and allowed the light to guide his way. The light seemed to dance across the old books and manuscripts. Cobwebs were spun across entire shelves. Sam wondered what kind of spider could possibly live in a place so cold. He didn’t want to find out. Fortunately, he never had to, not in the months since he had been made Maester Aemon’s assistant.  The archives were a second home to him.

But sometimes, homes had to be shared. He turned around one corner and saw Jaqen H’ghar, one hand balancing a tome while the other held a page in his delicate grip. “A man greets a man,” he said, without even turning towards Sam. He turned the page.

“Hello, Jaqen.” It had been a moon since many of the criminals that arrive with Yoren swore the oath. Many did it in the chapel of the Seven, but Jaqen H’ghar said he was of Lorath, and the Seven were foreign gods to him. They allowed him a private ceremony, so long as they could hear him speaking the worlds. _Night gathers, and now my watch begins._

“A man’s curiosities brings him to the temple again.”

The speech of Lorath always made things confusing. “You or I?”

“Is there a difference?” He snapped the book shut, sending a wave of dust into the cold air. Gently, he returned the book to the shelf and retrieved his taper. “Again you come to the temple.”

“Library,” Sam said. He coughed, the cold wind chilling his throat. “And so do you. Should I question you?” The Lorathi was always asking questions. Sam could ask plenty of questions of him, like if it was true that he was in the black cells, or why his hair was red and white. But Sam never did; something about the Lorathi unnerved him beyond reason or sense.

Jaqen H’ghar seemed almost amused by that query. “A man could. And a man would answer. _If_ ,” he said, with a pointed finger, “it is the right question.”

A queer sort of courage filled him. “So, I should not ask on the meaning of life then?”

“Oh, that is within my power. _Valar morghulis. Valar dohaeris._ All men must die, and all men must serve. Is that not so?”

“That’s Valyrian.” He recognized the tone, but not the words themselves. “But not the High Valyrian of the dragonlords.”

The man with red and white hair smiled. “Just so. Such words came not from Valyria. Who did they serve, but themselves? They are of Braavos. The Free City.”

Sam frowned. “There are nine Free Cities. Lys, Tyrosh—”

“And all have slaves. How free are they?” They are a hint of an edge in the Lorathi’s voice, but only a hint. His tone was controlled. “Enough of questions for a man. He would have questions for a man. What brings you here?”

“Me?” He was Maester Aemon’s assistant. He didn’t _need_ a reason. “I was just…going to look.”

Jaqen raised an eyebrow. “Look?”

“At books.”

“A man would just _look_ at books. He would not read books?”

Sam huffed at that. “You know what I mean.”

“A man should be clear and specific then.” Jaqen H’ghar looked at Sam, peering down on him, his eyes narrowed. “Does a man frighten you?”

More than Sam would like to admit, and he almost shudders out a yes. “No,” he said instead, although it was a very weak and timid no. He could feel his blubberous neck shake and rattle with nervousness and…Sam doesn’t know what else to call it. Fear? Why is he afraid of a sworn brother? Jaqen H’ghar would not dare kill him, not at Castle Black. But Sam was afraid of the Lorathi, with the queer name and the queerer speech and queerest hair he had ever seen. He could not say why, for all the man did was smile and ask questions, but Sam was afraid.

Jaqen H’ghar could see right through Sam’s lie. He could see it in the Lorathi’s eyes. “A man says farewell. He is certain that Maester Aemon will summon him soon. A man should not keep his master waiting.”

And then, Sam was alone, just him and the taper, the cold wind, the thousand of thousands books and scrolls. He gathered his courage – what small specks of it he had left – and followed the trail of musk. He needed the older books, the ones that were falling apart at the seams. It wasn’t disrespect or lack of care that were causing their decay – they were just _old_. Sam would be as careful as he could be, and he would hate to tear at any of them, but it could not be helped.

He had to find out what he could. About the Others, the White Walkers, the Long Night, the dead with eyes like blue stars. Anything he could find at all. The Lord Commander had sent out men to find out what they could, but none of them came back. Sam had been trying for months now to find something in the archives, but it was so big. And he was just…

Sam had to try. What else could he do? There was a tome so old that the lettering had faded away. That was good a place to start as any. It had to be old; all of the ink had faded, the contents lost forever. What did the author want to have written down, and what did the years take from them? _Probably just how much wheat Castle Black taxed from Mole’s Town, truth be told._

His day in the library that day was a waste. Well, not a waste in terms of reading. He saw a census of Mole’s Town the years following the visit of the Good Queen; it had risen. By ten, granted, but it rose regardless. But it was a waste in how Sam could just not find anything _useful_. He needed something to tell him the truth of the Others, how a dead man could kill the old Lord Commander…and he just could not find the answer. Not in these books, it would seem, as much as it pained Sam to admit that.

Sam kept on telling himself: just one more. One more word, one more book; he will find the answer then, he knew he would. Sam kept telling himself that lie over and over again. _I am useless. All I can do is read and write, and neither of that is doing us any good._ What will his love of books do when some dead man rips his face off? The thought gave him a shudder, a greater chill than the cold wind that blew into the library.

It was after flipping through a copy of Septon Barth’s _Strange Histories: The Tales From the North_ that Sam gave up. Returning it, he noticed there was a space where some book should have been. _What does it matter? Castle Black has one of the oldest libraries in Westeros. Anybody could have taken a book and not returned it._

His heart heavy, Sam went out into the cold. The air bit at his soft flesh. Alliser Thorne had called him Ser Piggy, but a pig would live better at the Wall than he did. Despite all of his layers of leather and wool, Sam still felt the wind chew through his flesh. It took only a single step outside the tower for Sam to feel the snot build up in his nose. He would be sniffling before he even crossed the yard.

The sound of hammer striking against steel filled the air, like a distant bell tolling in the distance. Sam turned his head and saw the black smoke rising out from the smithy. For half a moment, Sam thought to just keep on walking. But it was cold, colder than it had any right to be, and he needed a reprieve. If only so he could save himself from a terrible cold.

The moment that Sam entered the forge, he was struck by the hot air. He felt the hairs prickle on his skin, and sweat pooled beneath his layers of leather. The strikes of the hammer rung in Sam’s ears. He recognized the smith; it was one of the boys that arrived with Yoren, all those moons ago. He still had not taken the oath; he was no criminal, just someone trying to hide from the Lannisters. “Half of the bloody realm is trying to stay away from the lions, and it’s not like we are overflowing with smiths.” That was the Lord Commander’s answer when Alliser Thorne protested about the boy not taking the black.

The smith turned, and his face was covered in soot. Sam could see sweat dripping down his arm, and his cheeks were pink and flush. He squinted. “You’re the Maester’s assistant.”

 _He knows me?_ “Aye,” Sam shivered. “I’m Samwell. It was cold. And I thought—”

“That you’d come into my smithy and warm up. It’s always bloody cold, but you’re the first one to think to use my forge to warm up. You’re braver than most, Sam.”

 _Brave? He must be mocking me._ But beneath all that soot, the smith had the boldest blue eyes Sam had ever seen. “If you are going to use my forge, I am going to use you. Hand me that tong.”

For a moment, Sam just stood there, gawking. Then he saw the rusted tong that was lying on the table. It was heavy in his hands, and the leather handle was peeling off. “My name is Gendry.” He took it from Sam and plunged it into the fire. Sam could see a horseshoe, golden and red. When Gendry pushed it into a barrel, the water hissed, and steam rose up like a pillar. Gendry waited a moment before taking out the horseshoe, and all the red and the fury had seeped out of the metal. “Donal should be pleased.”

Sam blinked. “The Lord Commander?”

Gendry gave out a grunt. The man had only a simple layer of leather to combat the cold, but he was still wrapped in a sheet of sweat. “He has…the Lord Commander would instruct me from time to time. I think he likes it here.”

“Does the Lord Commander come often?”

Gendry gave a nod. He laid the horseshoe on a hook. Sam could still see heat simmering from it. “He does. I think…well, he keeps on saying you all need a smith. He says the Night’s Watch needs a smith.”

“It does,” Sam said. _More than a fat boy that can only read._ “Have you thought of taking the oath?”

Gendry did not turn to face him. “I…I don’t know. I didn’t do anything wrong, was not put in no jail. I was apprenticed, then I wasn’t. Had to go, leave with the black brother. Will they make me leave if I don’t take the oath?”

“They might,” Sam said. “I know sometimes they would enlist men from Mole’s Town, but that would only be when a king-beyond-the-Wall would raise an army. Those men weren’t brothers, but they fought at the side of the Night’s Watch.” Sam licked his lips, hoping to bring some warmth to them. “Do you like it here?”

Gendry scoffed at that. “Like it? Seven hells, no. I’ve never known it could be so cold. How can anyone stand it? But I’m safe here. At least I feel safe. No Lannisters are getting past the Neck. That’s what Yoren said. And I heard that Stannis Baratheon took the city. Is that true?”

Sam nodded. “He did.” Maester Aemon had gotten the raven two weeks past. “The Queen is dead, and so are the princes. Both of them. Some say Joffrey hung himself, others that he was killed. And Lord Tywin.”

Gendry looked confused. “Lord Tywin?”

 _He is common born. Of course he wouldn’t know by name._ “The Lord of Casterly Rock. The Queen’s father. He died fighting Robb Stark. You’re safe here, Gendry.”

“Oh.” Gendry did not particularly fazed by that revelation. “Does that mean the King in the North will come back. The Wildlings are coming. Everyone says so.”

Maester Aemon had surely sent his letter by now. But no raven, no matter how well bred or trained, could take any less than a week to reach Highgarden. And the Night’s Watch did not have the most exemplary of ravens. “He will come,” Sam said. But even Gendry did not look convinced.

“The Wall will stand.” Sam and Gendry turned, and saw the Lord Commander step into the smithy. He was warmly dressed. His loose sleeve was coated in snow, as was the gray wisps of hair on his head. “The Wall defends itself. As for this King in the North…the Starks have always defended against the Wildlings.”

“But, Lord Commander,” Sam said, “Robb Stark is beyond the Neck, and the Ironborne—”

“You nevermind about the Ironborne or Robb Stark. Gendry, do you have my horseshoe?”

The smith nodded. “Yes, Donal.”

“Give it here.” Gendry quickly handed it over to the Lord Commander. Donal Noye narrowed his eyes, his thumb feeling the surface. “It’s good.”

“Good?” Gendry almost looked insulted.

“The metal is crass,” he said. Sam didn’t understand a word of it. _Isn’t crass what you say when someone is disrespectful?_

“There’s no good ore,” Gendry said. “And that will work well enough for a horseshoe.”

The Lord Commander tossed the horseshoe onto the workbench. “If you can’t make a decent horseshoe, how can you expect to fit helmets or mend shirts of chain?”

“But, Lord Commander,” Sam said, “you just said that the horseshoe was good.” _You should have said it was made well._ But the Lord Commander was already scrunching his face.

“What are you doing here, Tarly? Why aren’t you with the Aemon?”

“I had finished my duties with him for the day. The Maester had sent for Jaqen H’ghar.”

The Lord Commander gave out a hurmph. “Jaqen H’ghar,” he grunted. “Can’t remember the last time an Essosi took the Black. Not since I—” Sam could hear the rattling of chains and the screech of the gates. “Seven hells, the gates shouldn’t be opening unless…Tarly with me.”

“With…you?”

“You see any other maester around? Aemon isn’t here, and I’m not waiting for him. I know you have no links, but I make do with what I have. With me.”

Sam gave a numb nod, looked back towards Gendry, who gave him a “What are you looking at me for?” look, before he followed the snowy tracks of the Lord Commander. The snow was falling, heavier and faster, but Donal Noye still gave a good pace. His back was covered in white when they had finally arrived at the gates. “Aiden!” he called out. “What is going on?”

Aiden was a small man, with a long face, a big nose, and ears that made him look like a monkey. Sam had seen pictures of them in a book. “It’s the Halfhand, My Lord. He’s returned.”

“Qhorin Halfhand? Mallister had sent him. Why didn’t he return to the Tower?” The Lord Commander scratched at his neck. “Nevermind that. Open the gates!”

It took a long time for the gates to open. The cold had frosted the chains, and the wheel had more difficulty turning them than usual. The oil that had been shipped from Braavos had frozen, and it was still being warmed down. But when the gates did open, Sam heard the groaning of the gates, and the screeching of the iron door within the long hall out of the Wall.

And then rode in Qhorin Halfhand. Sam had heard a few whispers of the famed ranger from the Shadow Tower, but the man didn’t fulfill any of his expectations. He  had expected a grizzled man with a thick beard, someone with a thousand scars, but Qhorin was thin and lanky, and the only sign of a wound on him were his three missing fingers on his right hand.

The man was pale; paler than any of the others, and when the wind whipped his hood off, Sam could see the man’s long and tangled gray hair. In the snow, the man was all white and pale.

“Gods, Qhorin, you look half dead. Get off your horse. Where’s the Maester?”

“No time for that.” The ranger of the Shadow Tower struggled off of his garron. The horse breathed in heavy gasps, as if the entire world was strapped to its back. Sam could see cuts in the horse’s thick hide and blood had frozen on its hooves. Qhorin Halfhand pulled a wrapped bundle out of the satchel.

The Lord Commander looked at it queerly. “What is this?” he asked when it was placed in his hand.

“It is from Benjen Stark.” Moving with a rabid pace, Donal Noye nestled the bundle against his chest and unfurled it with his free hand. The first thing Sam saw was the black stone, sleek and glimmering, and sharpened to a pointed edge.

“Obsidian,” Sam whispered. “Dragonglass. They say that Dragonstone is filled with the material, My Lord. Very brittle, but beautiful.”

The Lord Commander narrowed his eyes. “And you say this came from Benjen Stark? Where is he, Qhorin?”

“I don’t know. But I know he left these behind, right at the Fist. None other would have done that. And that wasn’t all.” The Halfhand’s one good hand slipped into his coat, and when it slipped out his fingers were gripping a horn. It was cracked right down the center, and bands of bronze were smelted along it’s rim. It was black, and Sam would say that it was carved from an auroch’s horn. “This was with it as well.”

“A horn? If this was Benjen Stark, why would he leave behind a pile of obsidian arrowheads and some broken horn? Can it even be blown?”

“I cannot say, Lord Commander. But if this was Benjen Stark’s doing, and I have every reason to believe it was, then I would not so easily discard it away.”

Donal Noye’s thumb grazed against the edge of one of the arrowheads. “I trust Stark. Castle Black never knew a better ranger.”

“Lord Commander, there’s more. Denys Mallister sent me out with nine other men. I am the only survivor. The dead are on the march. I’ve seen them. They are going straight for Mance Rayder and his Wildling horde.”

 

**A KNOWING MAN**

 

He knew the Khaleesi had returned, when the wolf padded over to her. Ghost was watching over the Khalakka the moment the Khaleesi had left – to “hear out Kraznys mo Nakloz” as she had put it. The wolf’s musk was unmistakable. _Better a beast than a dragon._ The wolf was loyal to the Khaleesi and Jon Snow, something that No-Eyes could not quite say about the three dragons.

The Khaleesi had returned them to the world, but does a dragon have love and loyalty? It is by Daenerys that they are fed, but what about when they are grown? She has spoken often of riding them when they grew large enough, in a years time, or maybe two, but would they submit?

A wolf is loyal to its pack. But what is a dragon loyal to? The thought made No-Eyes feel uneasy. _Yes, better Ghost than the Black or the White._

Still, he was glad to be rid of the smell. No-Eyes was certain that the Khaleesi had demanded Ghost to be washed, but a wolf would always smell like a wolf.

“Loyal boy,” the Khaleesi said as she breathed into his fur. Her fingers rubbed into the wolf. “Was my son much trouble, Ghost?” The wolf, as always, was silent. _Well, at least the dragons make their presence known._

Without waiting for an answer, the Khaleesi made her way to the crib and lifted her son into her arms. “I would have words, No-Eyes.” He could hear the babe rustle in the bundle.

“You have it, as always. “He rested his head along the wall. “You saw the Unsullied.”

“I did.”

“The sight was not pleasing.”

“It was not.” Daenerys pressed a kiss to her son’s head, and he cooed in return. “Did you know that they are cut?”

No-Eyes nodded. “It is known to me that they are cut. That is the first measures taken by the Masters of Astapor to ensure that the Unsullied are unlike any other men.”

“They are not men,” she said. Her son had grown quiet, even though No-Eyes could hear him rustling beneath the blanket. “Kraznys said so himself with pride. They are turned into weapons. I watched him sear off the nipple of a red-headed Unsullied, and the man did not yell out or squirm or quiver…or blink. He asked if Kraznys was _pleased_ with his service.”

No-Eyes folded his fingers at his lap. “The discipline of the Unsullied are unparalleled throughout the world.”

“And do you know the price of that discipline?” She did not wait for an answer. “Eight thousand dead puppies. As boys they are given a pup, to look over and to love. And if at a year’s end they do not strangle the puppies, both boy and pup are killed and fed to the dogs. As men they face one last trial before they earn their spiked helmets. They…” There was a hesitation in her voice that No-Eyes was not used to. Not since the first weeks of her marriage to Drogo did Daenerys Targaryen speak so softly. “They are given a silver and are told to find a slave woman with a child. Babes are best, I was told. Then they kill the babe in front of the mother, and a silver is paid.”

“For the mother?”

“For the _master_.” If No-Eyes could see, he would probably see tears on the Khaleesi’s cheek. “That is what I would be buying with the Unsullied. Eight thousand dead puppies. Eight thousand dead babies.” She was quiet for a moment. “Eight thousand dead sons.” She held her son closer.

“And the liberation of Jon Snow.” The Westerosi were not used to the truths of the world. No-Eyes knew that they had laws denying slavery, as if one could forbid the sun from rising in the morning. “Do not forget why we are here. Why you _decided_ to come here. Jorah the Andal gave you counsel.”

“I heard plenty of Jorah’s counsel. As we rode back, he advised that we leave during the night, and to place my faith in Ser Barristan Selmy and Sansa Stark.”

“I was there,” he reminded her. “Somehow Aggo managed to find out about that room.”

“He knew someone who knew someone that saw that Pentoshi sailor.”

“Who just happened to get in touch with that someone that knew someone. I think the sister of Jon Snow is capable of protecting herself. That would endanger the purpose of why we are here.”

“An army,” she said. “A way to take back the Iron Throne. And to take Jon back.”

No-Eyes rasped his knuckles on the wall. “So when Ser Jorah speaks of leaving this place, know that his hatred of slavery is controlling his thoughts. You know what you will be purchasing. Did the Master accept the bargain?”

“Yes,” she said. “One dragon, and all of the treasures we have secured from my late husband, in exchange for eight thousand Unsullied. As well as those that have not yet earned their spiked helmets.”

No-Eyes chewed on his lips. “And just how many are that? Actually, no. I don’t want the answer to that question. What did Kraznys think of that? I doubt he saw that coming.”

“I imagine not. He was certain that Missandei translated my words wrong.” No-Eyes must have had a ponderous look on his face; “The little scribe girl that translates my words.”

“Ah,” No-Eyes nodded. “I remember now. There is a sweet wit to her.”

“I’m glad that you think so. She is mine now.”

No-Eyes snorted. “Yours?”

“Well, she was given to me. But I freed her almost immediately. Still, I imagine she will cling to us for a time. Where else shall she go?”

Nowhere. That was the truth of it, as much as the Khaleesi would love to deny it. By the time the week is done, Astapor would be brought low. The pyramids would be desecrations, and the masters would bow low before the Khaleesi. If all her plans came to fruition, but No-Eyes had no doubt of that. She had brought dragons back into the world – how hard could it be to defeat some soft fleshed men who ride on donkeys?

But after the donkey riders are defeated, where would the once-slaves go? No-Eyes wondered if she had considered that question.

“The bargain is struck then?”

“It’s been struck.” The Khalakka whined at her chest, and she whispered something soft into his ear. No-Eyes could hear the gentle taps of her feet pacing around the room.  “I did not go alone. The dragon can never be seen as a beggar. Irri and Jhiqui, along with Ser Jorah. One dragon, for eight thousand Unsullied, as well as six centuries.”

No-Eyes arched his brow. “Centuries?”

There was a sigh, and the babbling of a babe. “It is how the Unsullied are organized. These centuries would have made up the ninth thousand…until I came and claimed them.”

“As well as the boys in training, cut and uncut.”

“Yes,” she said. “I would have them all, I said. It will be a long campaign to reclaim my family’s throne, and Unsullied will fall on the battle. I shall need men to replace them.”

“So, they bought it.” No-Eyes licked his lips. “Good. They are greedy, these Masters of Astapor. I bet they could hardly contain themselves.”

“They were practically throwing themselves at me.” Daenerys Targaryen was beaming. “Well, they were hesitant to sell the boys. They cared about their reputation, but only to a point.”

He smiled. “One would think that turning boys into eunuchs would do plenty to sully such a reputation.”

“Damn their reputations.” There was a bite in her words. “They were greedy, every single one of them. The moment I offered up Agerion, all thought of their station melted away.”

“The dragons are a wonder. Just having one…why, all the riches in the world pale in comparison.” The Khaleesi was silent, save for the rustling of her son. No-Eyes could hear her holding the boy close, her arms wrapping around the blanket bundle. “And what does Jorah the Andal think of all this? You are betting everything on a deception. I don’t need to remind you of what shall happen should we lose.”

“He did not agree. He advised that it was all too dangerous. He told me to think of my son. I wanted to slap him.”

He clicked his tongue – once, twice – and gave the floor a few taps of his feet. “I’m surprised you didn’t.”

“I won’t punish honest counsel, No-Eyes.”

“Honest?” He gave off a hrmph. “That man is blinded by his desires. He wants what he can never have. Not so long as Jon Snow is alive.”

“Ser Jorah is loyal.”

“To a point,” No-Eyes said. “Where was he when Jon Snow was captured?” She was silent. “How often has his counsel pointed you away from Astapor – from Jon?”

“I know what is in his heart. And that keeps him loyal to me, and to my son.”

“And what is in your heart, Khaleesi?”

“Jon Snow,” she said fiercely. “And by this moon’s turn, he will be with us again.”

 

**THE WOLF IN THE PITS**

 

The Alashant rode with them in the cage. “Death is not that can be stopped,” he said. “It comes for us all.” The cage rattled in agreement, the iron wheels whined. “You cannot stop it, but you can change how you are remembered. Thousands will watch you during these games today. A thousand souls that will see you fight and kill. Bring glory to the Flayed Twins, but even more, make sure that you are remembered.” Jon could see the crowd from behind the cage. They couldn’t all be masters, because Jon doubted that a master would be dressed in tunics without fringes or color. Astapor was red, but the people that lived in it were dressed in brown and white. “Iorwen died for this. Do not let his death be forgotten.”

“It’s not,” Jon promised. “So long as I live and breathe, Iorwn will not be forgotten.”

Horeah’s chains rattled as the cart bumped along the streets. “One is not like to forget that, Alashant.”

“I am not asking you to understand why the Master did as he did. That is not your place.” He raised up a finger. “You have one purpose. To seek out glory in the blood pits. Kill your enemies. Make them bone. I know you will not disappoint.”

“What makes you so sure?” asked Saethor.

“Because you are bloodsworne to the house of Hrasher. Even among the other fighters in the pits, you stand above them. Take pride in that, but do not be haughty. Glory flees us all eventually. You have killed men in the other pits before.”

“They were hardly pits,” Haethor said. “Circles of wooden fences with sand in the middle and seats for a crowd.”

The Alashant nodded. “Aye, those words are true. But Nierhols’ Pit is unlike any of the others.” There was a rare smile on his face. “Go; see for yourself.” His knuckles rapped on the bars.

Jon turned, and saw. Nierhols’ Pit was not bordered by tall wooden beams, but massive walls built from bright pink stones. It did not stand as tall as some of the pyramids that rose in the distance…but it was still one of the biggest structures Jon had ever seen. The Pit easily matched the tallest tower of Winterfell. Looming over the entrance were two harpies hammered from bronze, their sharp wings angled over the gateway.

“That is where we are fighting?” Horeah sounded dumbstruck.

“Good deal bigger than some fencepost,” Saethor said.

The Alashant nodded. “Aye. Bigger than some fencepost.”

 _Arekor would want to be here_. That man wanted nothing more than to fight in the Blood Pits. He should have known there was no hope for fight in Nierhols’ Pit. He had not been branded by Terzac vo Hrahser. “I will earn my mark,” he had promised just a few days before. “We must work twice as hard, Andal. Three times!” But Jon had to give him the painful truth that it would take a miracle for him to be admitted into Nierhols’ games. Even if he had earned the mark, he had still yet to fight in any of the pits. Hrasher would never permit him in Nierhols’ Pit.

There was a painful look in his pale violet eyes. But the man had swallowed the bitter truth, something that Jon was thankful for. Arekor could fight – he had the strength for it. His discipline and technique needed work, but day by day he was getting better.

“Tell me, Jon,” Arekor asked of him once, “what do you know of your mother?”

That gave Jon pause. He feared that someway, somehow, Arekor knew who he was. Not just Jon the Andal – Jon Snow the bastard, the lover of Daenerys Targaryen, father to Daemon. “A woman,” he said. “Like most of them.”

“I know more than you then, I suppose. She was a Lyseni. A noble, I would guess. She sold me.”

“Was she…forced?” Jon hated asking the question. It felt like he was trying to earn access to something that wasn’t his right.

Arekor scratched at his shrunken hand. “Maybe. Perhaps. All I know is that my mother looked at me and refused to have me. I have some…memories. That’s not the word. Flashes, more like. I think I remember her as being beautiful. I cannot blame her, Andal. How could someone so beautiful feel any love for a thing like me? I will never know what it is like to be loved by a mother. But the crowd…when they chant, they love. If you feel a thousand souls saying your name, cheering for you… how is that not love Andal?”

As Jon looked at the massive walls of Nierhols’ Pit, he imagined more than a thousand would cram into those seats. _Three thousand, maybe?_ No, that seemed too low. The walls were too high, and curved too far, for that to be the case. With every death, thousands would scream out a name. They may even scream out his name.

Jon didn’t want them to scream out his name. All those souls meant nothing to him. Who were they compared to feeling Daenerys’ warm embrace again, or for the chance to hold Daemon in his arms? _Tell me who to kill, and I will. If it makes me a free man, I will find a way._

The cage was drawn into the gates, and it was not long before the guards in silk opened the latch. The iron door groaned open and they were guided out in their shackles. They were led to stairs, where only some faint torches lighted the path below. “Wait there,” one of them said. Jon could almost smell the perfume against the sweat. His skin was damp from the heat.

The stairs were made from rough stone. Jon could feel the difference, even against the sandals that wrapped up to his knees. Jon wouldn’t dare wear anything heavier than a tunic in this heat. He thought the hot wave was bad on the Dothraki Sea but this…Astapor was a demon in comparison. He could almost imagine one of the seven Devil Princes of the Abyss fanning the flames in delight.

Sansa would have fared much better in this hot weather. She always seemed to love the brief touches of summer the best. But Jon…well, he was his father’s son. He was most comfortable in layers of fur and leather.

He thought of Dany then, when she would be dressed in feathers and in lion fangs around her neck. Jon could not imagine her in the heavy furs of the North. He had only seen her in silk and cotton and strings of pearls. Jon would not have wanted it any other way, to see as much of her as he could…

 _Focus you fool._ He followed behind the Alashant into the dimly lit hall. The chains rattled behind him. Each step was a reminder that he was not free, that he was still bound as a slave. Daenerys promised him freedom. They had returned the dragons to the world, someway, somehow. It almost felt like a dream as the words tumbled over him.

There were no guarantees. A thousand things could go wrong. Why didn’t he say anything? _Run Dany. Take our son and leave me. I am not worth the risk._ Those were the words he should have said. Not…gods, there is a time for faith, and a time for the man to tell the woman that she is half mad. Turn on the Masters? Burn Astapor to the ground? Buy the Unsullied with a dragon? It was madness. It was near on suicide. After all the restraint they had employed, now they were flinging themselves over the cliff.

 _Fire and blood._ Those were Daenerys’ words. Aegon the Conqueror and his wives adopted them as the oath of their house. That is what would await all the enemies of House Targaryen. _Bow or die. Submit or be destroyed._

Dany had no choice. It was in her blood.

The crowd thundered above them, small streams of dust twinkling down the rays of light. They were roaring out a name, but Jon couldn’t make out the words. Jon could see on the wall some dark and crimson stains. _Men have died here, before they even touched the sands._ He took a look around, but saw no strange faces. “Are there only us?” He looked towards the Alashant, who was pulling a ring of keys out of a pocket. “Do not tell me we will fight each other.” His shackles released their iron grip on his wrists with a loud clink.

“Have no fear in that regard.” There was a reassuring smile, although the man’s scars twisted around his wrinkles. “Nierhols’ Pit is large enough that each group of bloodsworne can be kept separate. At least, until you step onto the sands. Then glory will decide your fate.”

 _Glory_. A sweet way to put a man at ease while a sword is tearing through his stomach. Will it appease him to know that he died for a crowd? Will the thousand cries of his name dull the waste of a life? Jon imagined not.

Saethor rubbed at his wrists. “Where are the others?”

Alyxqo stepped out of the shadows, his short crop of hair already damp with sweat. “We’ve been here. Qalentos is already on the sands.” He pointed a thumb towards the gates, where wide fingers of light flowed between the bars. “Shouldn’t be much longer.”

Jon could see Yarkaz’s immense form loom in the distance, veiled beneath the shadows. “It will be a long day. The crowd has been waiting for us.”

Saethor smiled. “It will be worth it. I’ll give them a show worth watching.”

The Alashant frowned. “You are not an entertainer. Remember that you stand on sacred ground. The Flayed Twins are watching you all. Do not shame yourselves.”

“I am not going to die,” Saethor said. “Not today.”

“I did not speak of death.” The Alashant took a few steps towards him, and Saethor seemed to be almost dwarfed by the Alashant’s impressive height. “The crowd will be entertained, but you are not a puppeteer. You are a bloodsworne. Spill blood to honor this place.”

Alasro was leaning against the wall, rubbing his ankle. “And to earn some wealth. Every victory is a boon.”

“Yes it is,” Yarkaz smiled. “But you will receive no boon if you shame the Master. He can sell any of us to the mines whenever he pleases. And do not think there is any hope for you there. Win, or hope that you appease the crowd. If you don’t, there is no hope for you.”

 

**THE DAUGHTER OF WINTERFELL**

 

Sansa made her way up the steps. She clutched the veil to her face; it felt lighter than air, and just as strong. But it was all she could do to keep the dust of the city from her eyes. It stung worse than soap water. Terzac vo Hrasher took a look at her, and then turned his face. Sansa felt her fear rise in a clump in her throat.

She swallowed it and tightened her grip on her father’s arm. “I am very excited, Father,” she said in a tone just above a whisper. “I have never seen a bloodsworne before.”

“Few warriors are as fierce,” Barristan said. There was a strain in his voice, and Sansa feared it would give them away. “Come.” Sansa smiled as she obeyed the command.

As she stepped out onto the balcony, the wave of heat washed over them. In a moment Sansa could already feel beads of sweat drip down her neck. She looked over the arena, and she saw a thousand upon a thousand people. They rose so high over the arena that those that clamored below were little better than ants.

Thousands had come to see people fight for their lives. It made Sansa ill. _The songs always told of knights fighting for what was right_. But there was nothing right in this.

She forced a smile. If Queen Cersei were there, she would see right through Sansa.

The man she knew as Paraszys sol Nierhols smiled at her. He sucked on a cherry. “These must be the Westerosi you told me about, Terzac.”

The man who held Jon in bondage gave a smile. It looked almost as forced as her own. “Yes, this is Ser Allistan of Westeros. And his lovely daughter, Minisa.”

At Paraszys’ side was a man with hair just like Daenerys. But something in his eyes gave Sansa a chill. “Astapor seems to be filled with Westerosi, as of late.”

“This is Ashokar Nyathar, of Lys,” Lord Hrasher explained. “A business acquaintance of mine, who has come to Astapor on business. He needs to replenish his pleasure houses with…young consorts. Some business to do with an Asshai’I warlock gone bad.”

“Indeed.” The Lyseni rubbed at his pale knuckles. Sansa could see the sweat that flowed down his neck and soaked his collar. “But sometimes, a man must replenish his stock. It is the way of such things. Now, Paraszys, what are Westerosi doing so far from home? Astapor is more than a hop in a pond for you.”

“They came with an offer. A generous reference from Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos.”

The Lyseni licked his lips. “I heard of such. He took in a slave from one of my pleasure houses as a wife. I forget her name, but her hair was most beautiful. Like liquid silver. But that was many years ago.”

“The Magister was very gracious.” Ser Barristan’s Valyrian was rough, but manageable. The Astapori smiled politely. “I had heard of the exploits of your…bloodsworne. The most fierce fighters, and the most loyal.”

The fat man that sat next to Daenerys Targaryen huffed at that. “Loyal? You would not find that in a bloodsworne. They are trained to be fierce, that much is true, but the word means nothing to them. Well, loyal to the crowd mayhaps—“

“Kraznys.” The son of Terzac, Alezek, spoke through gritted teeth.

“My brother forgets himself,” smiled Astrazys mo Nakloz. “This would not be the first time that a bloodsworne was bought for the purpose of protecting another.”

Daenerys looked towards Ser Barristan. “I am happy to have another of my people here. It seems so long since I have seen a son of Westeros.”

“Slave,” Kraznys mo Nakloz grunted to the brown skinned girl at Daenerys’ side, “what is she saying?” But the girl was silent.

“I served your father,” Ser Barristan said, “during the war. I could not live under the rule of the Usurper.”

Daenerys Targaryen ignored the agitated stares of Kraznys. “If only all could be so honorable. My brother would have desired your sword when he still lived, Arristan Whitebeard.”

There was a flash of worry in Barristan’s eyes, but it went unnoticed by the others. He gave a small bow of his head. “Forgiveness and pardons, Majesty, but I had my family to take care of. After the death of my wife—“

“Of course,” Daenerys smiled. The crowd was roaring. A man with a spear had just cut a man across the shoulder. His opponent did not have the reach with his axe. “You must think of your family now. As I must think of mine. Missandei,” she said to the girl, “tell Master Alezek how grateful I have been for his hospitality.”

“Yes,” spoke Alezek vo Hrasher in a tone that was anything but pleasant, “we were pleased to house the Mother of Dragons. As is all of Astapor.”

“A shame,” spoke Kraznys mo Nakloz, his fat fingers dangling close to Daenerys’ leg, “that she has purchased all of my Unsullied. They would suit your purposes much better than a bloodsworne. No offense, old friend, but you cannot deny my Unsullied are the most loyal and obedient creatures in all the realm.” Daenerys elegantly crossed her legs over, far from the fat master’s reach.

Terzac vo Hrasher smiled, thinly. “That is true. But fortunate for me, Daenerys Targaryen has taken all the Unsullied, leaving Ser Arristan and his daughter to me.”

“Besides,” Ser Arristan said, “I need more than loyalty for my purposes. My time will come. I am an old knight, who only wishes to see the last thing I love in all the world to be looked after. Do your Unsullied think for themselves, Kraznys of Astapor.”

He raised his fat head proudly. “They do not. The Unsullied obey every word spoken to them. Let them stand in the sun, and until you speak otherwise, they shall never request for either water or shade. They will fall to the ground, dead, until an order is given.”

 _How terrible. Monstrous._ She kept a blank look on her face. She had told Ser Barristan that it had to look as if she could not speak a word of Valyrian. Easier to deceive if they are ignorant.

“Then I must have only bloodsworne,” Ser Barristan said. “Although Majesty,” he looked towards Daenerys Targaryen, “I would love to see these fabled Unsullied for myself.”

“They are not hers,” Kraznys mo Nakloz said, “not yet. By the week’s end.”

Astrazys sipped from a cup of wine. “It was a bargain well struck. A dragon for an army.”

Ser Barristan feigned shock. “A _dragon_?” The crowd cheered, and Sansa gasped as the man with the spear sent the head of his weapon through the chest of his opponent. The roar of the crowd was the loudest thing she had ever heard. She could feel the echoes in her bones, and the golden plate of berries and fruits tremored at her side. “I must be mistaken. I misheard, surely. My Valyrian is not as strong as it should be.”

“Slave,” Kraznys said to the girl called Missandei, “tell the Targaryen to speak of her dragons. It would please her, I know.”

As Missandei spoke, Daenerys smiled. There were no falsities in that, Sansa could see. “Know this, Ser Arristan. The dragons have been returned to the world.”

Ser Barristan smiled, and his was just as sincere as Daenerys’ Targaryen’s. “I have not the words, Your Grace.”

“Then say nothing,” she smiled. “Perhaps the next I see you both, it will be home.”

“Home,” said Ser Barristan. “Nothing could sound so sweet. I long for it.”

“Ser Arristan, I could not agree more.”

 

THE WOLF IN THE PITS

 

Qalentos returned, covered in blood and sweat, and with a wide smile on his face. “Like gutting a pig,” he said. Alyxqo laughed as he approached, and Qalentos have him a bloody peck on the lips. “Would take more than some fucking Qohorik to rob life from my bones.”

Saethor grunted.

“Apologies,” Qalentos chuckled.

Alasro licked his lips. “So who is next?” He was inspecting a helmet with a plume so large it would trail down to his ass. “Qalentos had his fun.”

“As did you,” the Summer Islander smiled. “How long did those slaves last? They had thought to escape their Masters’, but instead they ran into your sword.”

“Don’t even joke,” he said. “That was not a fair contest. I was made to be a butcher.”

Jon could feel the tremors as the crowd stomped. Thousands of feet, pounding into the stands, demanding blood and entertainment. “ _TITAN! TITAN! TI-TAN!”_

“I think we all know what they want,” Alasro smiled. “They want to see your pretty face, Yarkaz.”

Yarkaz could not hide his prideful smile “They’ll see it, soon enough.” He turned to face Jon, his scarred arms crossed against his chest. “You seem calm, Andal.”

“I’ve killed before. Won’t be my first time dealing with a crowd.”

“But not in a pit like this. The pit that the Nierhols family built has no equal in all the world. Have you ever seen so many gathered in one place, Andal?”

 _When the King came to Winterfell. Perhaps._ Many Northern lords and their sons arrived to honor the King in the Great Hall, but even then, with all their squires and attendants… Jon couldn’t say it matched the number of people in Nierhols’ Pit. When Khal Drogo marched to Qohor, he summoned forth all of his khas and the kos that lead them. Jon had wondered if he and Dany would ever manage to scrub the horse stench out of their clothes.   

Granted, at the time Jon was more worried about making it out with Dany’s head still attached to her neck.

“A few times,” Jon said. “But this pit…it ranks up there. How can so many squeeze together in one place?”

“Astapori engineering, I’d imagine.” The Alashant was looking over a shelf showcasing a variety of weapons. Swords and spears and half shields were arranged for any of the bloodsworne to use. The Alashant did not seem too pleased by the selection. “The weak died so the strong could find their glory in this place?”

Saethor arched his brow. “The weak?”

The Alashant grunted. “Slaves labor and die every day. They die on the streets, in the pillow houses, and they die on grand projects such as this. Stone and mortar have made this place just as much as the bones of those slaves.”

“How many?” Jon asked. He felt something clutching at his throat. The words came out more raw than he had meant.

The Alashant shrugged. “I’d be surprised if the number counted was less than a hundred. Three-hundred would be a safe bet.”

 _Three hundred dead, just so arena-slaves can die for the city’s entertainment_. That was Astapor; that was Essos. Slavery had ruled this place since…Jon could not say. Perhaps some maester in Oldtown knew of a day when slavery was not the way in Essos. _Name us savage all you want, but we never placed a collar around another’s throat._

Jon could hear the groaning of a gate. “You hear that?”

Yarkaz nodded. “Looks like lions.”

“Aye, I see one.” Saethor was peeking through the gate. “But who is it fighting…oh gods.”

Haethor moved towards the gate, as did Yarkaz and Alansro, and Jon had to lean on their shoulders so he could peek through. Three men were led out from another side. They were naked save for odd markings on them. Flies were hovering over them.

 _No, not markings. Meat. They are covered in meat._ Blood was dripping from every place of their bodies. Jon couldn’t rightfully tell if they had anything to cover themselves, or if so much blood was smeared on them for him to notice.

“They are going to be fed to the lions,” Saethor said.

“And the Masters will place their bets on who is the last to be eaten,” Horeah said.

Yarkaz nodded. “Must have done something. Insulted a master, perhaps, or tried to run. Perhaps they murdered someone.”

“Or did nothing at all,” the Alashant said from behind. “It is a master’s right, after all. Master Terzac never did such, but his father was not so hesitant. I feared much for my life in those years.”

The lions were held back on a chain. But then there was the sound of gears grinding each other, metal moaning from within the stone walls, and the chains were cut loose.

And the crowd cheered.

 

**THE MOTHER OF DRAGONS**

 

Dany felt everything go cold. She placed her glass down. Everything went dizzy. She must have gone pale. She certainly felt cold; her fingertips felt frozen and there was a numbness on her lips. She was surprised that she couldn’t see her own breath before her. Jon had told her that in the cold, you could see the air materialize where you drew breath. She would not allow herself to cry, to weep at the horrors. The dragon does not cry. It does not show fear.

The slaves were screaming.

Her stomach was twisting inside of her, and Dany could feel something cold and blinding rise up in her throat. She choked it back down. _A dragon cannot be afraid._ She forced back her tears and allowed a pleasant smile to slither onto her face.

Kraznys mo Nakloz slammed a fist onto his pudgy leg in displeasure. “Golden Trickster take me. I placed my bets on the one covered in jackal blood!”

“I warned you that was the poorest course,” smiled his brother Astrazys. “Lions only feast upon jackals when they must. They may long for it, but I don’t think that would attract them. See the Lengii? His long legs will keep him running.”

Dany tried her best not to focus. To not watch as the lion tore through a man, to not listen as one screamed. _Do not think of what you see_. She thought of the gentle washes of the shore near the red door. She remembered the giggles of Daemon when she would nuzzle against his little belly. She filled herself with the memories of Jon’s gentle smile.

When it was over, the lion was herded away, and men with hooks came to retrieve the corpses. “What did I say?” Astrazys mo Nakloz leaned in to his brother’s fat ear. “Long legs.”

Paraszys sol Nierhols’ lips widened into something that could be called a smile. “Your brother has a talent for this. He has the eyes for it, I think. I don’t know how you do it Astrazys, but you always best me at my bets.”

Astrazys smiled. “A gift I inherited from my father. The foundations of a slave are important. Would you not agree, Terzac?”

“I would,” spoke Terzac vo Hrasher. “I would never have one of the Ibbinese for a bloodsworne, as an example. They are too short and too broad by far. Plenty of strength, but no dexterity and stamina to match. And I hear they are very temperamental.”

“Girl,” Kraznys grunted towards Missandei, “ask the Targaryen how she enjoys the games.”

 _I would enjoy to put a dagger in each of your eyes_. “Pleasing,” she said, once Missandei finished. “I do long to see the bloodsworne of Master Terzac. I am certain that Ser Arristan is in agreement?”

Alezek vo Hrasher leaned forward. “The Black Hound in particular, I’m certain? You got a taste of him during the celebration that my father held.”

Dany raised a glass of wine to her lips. “Jon was ferocious,” she said. Sansa Stark had a soft glimmer in her blue eyes. _Sansa is nervous. Rightfully so._ “Are all of my people so ferocious in battle, Ser Arristan?”

Barristan Selmy cleared his throat. He had gone pale when the lions were on the field, but Dany could see that he had reclaimed some of his color. “We are, Your Grace. The knights of the Seven Kingdoms are trained from pagehood until they earn their spurs to be valorous on the field, and to protect the weak.”

She smiled. “Knights from all kingdoms? I heard from my brother that the North had no knights.”

“That is true, Majesty. But the Northern warriors are respected as well. Until Aegon the Conqueror united the realm, many of the Southern kingdoms feared the coming of a Northern raid.”

“I cannot wait to see this Jon again,” Dany said. She had trouble keeping a smile from her lips. “I saw him perform once under the roof of Alezek vo Hrasher. I would so love to see him here, under the open sun. Do you not agree, Minisa?”

Sansa Stark looked like she choked. “Yes,” she said, a bit too quickly. “I am very interested in seeing one of my…father’s people in battle.”

Astrazys gently asked Missandei to give a summary of the conversation, and when she finished he smiled. “Sooner than your daughter would think, Arristan of Westeros. Paraszys, surely we could advance the schedule a bit?”

Paraszys sol Nierhols frowned. “The people were demanding for the Titan.”

“I understand that, and I respect that. They are clamoring for the Black Hound as well, though, and surely the Titan of Astapor is best saved for the end, don’t you agree? Besides, I am certain that Daenerys Targaryen would love nothing less than to see that Andal once again. Considering the boon she has given this city…”

“Fine.” Paraszys rose from his seat, and straightened his tokar. After smoothing out his dark hair, and holding a fist over his heart, he cleared his voice and bellowed. “People of Astapor!” With one hand raised, Dany wanted to say that he almost looked regal. “The Flayed Twins must be pleased indeed by this day! But they have tasted only small trickles. A meal must be offered, one to fulfill their unquenchable appetites! From the House of Hrasher you have heard his name! The man that would not die! The Shadow from the savage west! The Black Hound of the Abyss!”

So many voices cried out, that Dany could not even say that words were spoken. It sounded more like a mass of noise, a monstrous beast that rose up from the stands. It reminded Dany of her dragons. _Will their roars be as mighty?_ “But we all know that a dog cannot stand alone, no matter how vicious or cunning he may be! The Westerosi shall have his companions – Horeah of Norvos, where the chimes of beautiful bells decide all things, and Saethor of Qohor, a place dripping with blood for their savage and cruel god!”

Dany’s heart began to beat. _He is making a big show of this. More so than all the others…what is happening?_ If Dany had her way, Jon would have been excluded from all the games. Kept him locked in a room until everything was done and over with. But she could not give her plans away. _Jon has fought against khals and won. He will be fine. I am worrying for nothing._

_But if that’s true, then why am I so afraid?_

“But what can stand against such a brotherhood? The answer lies not from beyond Astapor, the Red Jewel of the world, but from within its own walls!” The crowd roared in approval, and Dany could feel a tingling in her ear. “Hlargo the Deceiver, Tiarkus and Harmus, all bloodsworne from the house of Hallazak!”

Alezek, son of Terzac, did not look pleased. “Father,” he whispered hotly, “you said nothing of this.”

“You think I have a say? Silence and look pleasant. This is Paraszys’ week of game. He pays us for the pleasure of fucking us. Smile.”

 

**THE WOLF IN THE PITS**

 

A helmet with a visor made out of a dozen holes was shoved into Jon’s arms. “Quickly,” the Allashant said. “Where is that sword of yours?”

“Over here,” Yarkaz said. Jon could see the longsword leaning against the wall, right next to the spears and shields. He tossed it to Jon, who caught it by the hilt. “Paraszys pulled one over Master Terzac. I was not expecting you to go out so soon.”

“Have you grown jealous?”

Yarkaz pointed an angry finger at Jon. “Do not jest with me, Andal.” He turned on Horeah. “You ready, Norvosi?”

Horeah felt the weight of the axe in his hands. The shaft was cut from polished wood, while the single head was wide and sharp. Jon wasn’t too certain if it would manage to do much against steel, but flesh would be carved. “As ready as ever.”

“Good,” the Alashant said. He nodded in approval as Saethor approached the gate, spear and shield in hand. “None of you have fought together before. No better time to learn.”

“We all fought the Andal,” Saethor said. “And he whipped us all. Can’t think of a better form of unity.”

Yarkaz leaned on the wall, his arms crossed. “Three on three. It will be a fair fight at least.” Dust fell from the ceiling as the crowd thundered. Yarkaz raised his voice, “That doesn’t mean you can be confident. Watch the men to your left, and he will do the same to your right. Make it quick. Don’t be flashy. The crowd won’t be happy, but fuck them. The longer this fight goes on, the more cracks that will form.”

“Trust me,” Jon said. “The crowd’s appeal is not my concern.”

“I would curse you for that,” the Alashant said, “but not now. Remember what you are; bloodsworne from the most respected house in Astapor.” Chains rattled, and the iron gate was lifted. The sand streamed down from the blades. “Go; I will see you in the return. And if not…your life came to a glorious end.”

Jon stood with Saethor and Horeah, and the streams of light that flowed through the gates were blinding. When his vision cleared Jon could hear the booms of the crowd, a cyclopean force of noise and screams, applauses and bloodlust. He half stepped forward, half followed the clamors of the crowd. He could see them raising their fists, pounding against the railing, shouting out names and demands for blood.

They wanted to see Jon kill. To see anyone get killed. They wanted blood. Dark crimson stains littered the arena. Not just on the stands, although Jon could see plenty enough of that, but also on the walls. Wooden pillars with protruding spikes were dug into the ground, and Jon saw enough gore on them. How many had lost their lives in this place?

_How are you not satisfied? How many must die before you are content?_

They waited for them on the other side, the iron gate closing behind. Jon could see three beyond the clouds of dirt and the heat-filled air. The first wielded a spear in his dark hands, the second had something that looked like claws…and the third was the tallest man Jon had ever seen. The sword and square shield he wielded looked tiny and miniscule in his hands.

Saethor’s jaw was practically dropped. “That’s what we have to fight?”

“That’s what I am going to fight.” They kept their advance. “Saethor, you know spears better than any of us. You take him on. Haethor, can you keep that one with iron claws at bay?”

“Aye. I can do that.”

“Then leave the big one to me. I know a thing or two about swords.”

Saethor looked none too convinced. “And what of giants?”

Jon chewed his lip. “Well, time to learn. Don’t die on me, either of you.”

“Not counting on it,” Haethor said. “You live, Andal.”

“Aye,” he said. “I’m planning on it.” The tall man must have been the leader, just as Saethor and Horeah listened to him. The giant barked his orders, and waved his swords in their direction. Jon could see a nod from the spear wielder, and he made his way towards Saethor. He was already making obscene gestures, pounding his fist against his chest and shouting out curses towards the man’s mother. _Gods Saethor, don’t get yourself killed._

The giant was nor dressed in much armor, but neither was Jon. His helmet was open faced, and Jon could see the trace of a scar run down from his check to the corner of his lip. It created a vicious scowl. There was no plume on the helmet, unlike the one that topped off Saethor’s, but the man’s right hand was wrapped in leather, and plenty of frills and bells were hanging from it. Every time he moved, a small song weaved through the air.

“Hound,” the giant growled. “Do you know my name?” Jon shook his head. “I am Hilargo the Deceiver.”

Jon gripped the hilt of his blade. “Can’t see you deceiving much.”

The lips of the giant spread into something that was closer to a scowl than a smile. “Oh, but I do. You think you will live out the day. That is my deception.”

“Maybe,” Jon said. “Enough talk. Try and kill me.”

The sword came down as fast as Hilargo could bring it. And if it hit him, Jon would have found a sword carving through his shoulder and into his chest. But Hilargo was too big and too slow to catch him. He swerved out of the arc. Hilargo’s blade crashed down into the arc, cutting into the sand and unleashing a wave of dirt into the air. The giant rushed through and brought the blade crashing down again. Jon dodged it. _He is a big man. I just need to avoid him and he will—_

Jon felt the air get pushed out of his lungs as he was sent flying. The sand dug into his back, and Jon gritted his teeth. He was not expecting that shield strike. He was not expecting it to come so quick. His head was screaming, and for a blink everything was a blur of color and noise. Then he saw the traces of the blade coming for him, and Jon rolled. He felt his face dig into the sand as he twisted around.

As the crowd roared, Hilargo made his advance. Jon scrambled to his feet, his breath hot. He could see his blade was behind the giant, half dug in the sands. _That was stupid. Ser Rodrik taught me better than that._ Arrogance will kill a warrior every time. He had told that to Jon and Robb a hundred times, ever since they were boys and he placed a wooden sword in Jon’s hands.

Hilargo made for a lunge, but Jon saw it coming a league away. He twisted away from the sword blow, and the giant’s shield strike was too slow now that Jon saw it coming. He scrambled past Hilargo. The audience was jeering – at him or Hilargo, Jon couldn’t say for sure. It didn’t matter, because as soon as Jon dove for the blade and grabbed it, the crowd cheered. He could see rows of men and women rise up, bringing their fists to the sun, screaming out demands for blood.

They would get it. _Just not mine._

 

THE DAUGHTER OF WINTERFELL

 

Sansa’s heart was in her throat. That had to be it. Why else could she not breathe? Ser Barristan’s hand was laid on hers, his fingers digging into the chair, but she didn’t think the knight noticed. Sansa could not care. Jon had almost died a dozen times, right before her eyes.

And save for Daenerys Targaryen, everyone else was laughing and cheering, their eyes glowing with a smile, leaning towards the edge of their seats. Kraznys mo Nakloz could have been on the edge the entire time for all Sansa knew. _How did the wood not break from under him?_ That would have been a sight and a worthy distraction from the madness going down below.

“Did you see that?” Astrazys had whipped his head towards his brother. “How can a man move that fast?”

“His mother was a cat,” Ashokar Nyathar of Lys said. “Has to be. He even looks like one. No one’s hair is that fine.”

_Jon is no cat. He is the bastard son of my father. If anything, he is a wolf._

The arena was filled with the uproar of the crowd. When the giant failed every swing, they cheered. Whenever Jon dodged a strike, hey cheered. Whenever the axeman kept the clawed one at bay with his wing, they cheered. Whenever the two spears clashed, they cheered. One of them could have tripped on their shoes and the Astapori would have applauded. _But if that has to happen, let it be one of Jon’s enemies._

“It is no wonder he survived the Abyss.” Astrazys sucked at his lips, and Sansa noticed how he constantly would form his fingers into a fist, and then release, over and over and over. “Look at how he moves.”

Terzac vo Hrasher grinned with confidence. “He is one of my bloodsworne. Would you expect anything less?”

“Of course not,” Astrazys answered quickly. “Everyone knows your family has no equal. But in time, that one could be another Titan.”

“Perhaps,” Terzac answered in an unconvinced tone.

There was so much going on that Sansa didn’t know where to look. She wanted to focus only on Jon. With every of the giant’s swing Sansa fears for his life, but then the crowd cheers, and Sansa finds her eyes darting towards another side of the arena. The man with the axe nearly killed his opponent, but the blade of his weapon just touches the man’s chest. She sees blood fly across the brown sands of the arena floor.

Sansa feels dizzy. Her head feels lighter than air. “Water,” she sayid quickly, before realizing that none of the slaves spoke the Common Tongue. But Daenerys heard her, and she quickly whispered something into the little girls’ ear. A slave came not long after, holding a silver with plate with a glass. She mumbled her thanks, despite knowing he understood not a word.

Sansa closed her eye for a moment, hoping the cool water would sweep the dizziness away. It did, to a point, but not enough for Sansa’s liking. She opened her eyes when she heard the roar of the crowd. Her ears were ringing like bells, but she looked all the same. The man with the spear – one of Jon’s fellow gladiators – staggered back. Sansa saw blood on the ground.

“Gods,” Alezek vo Hrasher cursed, “is Saethor gone?”

His father shook his head. “No. It was a graze. Look.” Saethor rook a few careful steps back, and his hand was clutched to his throat. But he hadn’t fallen to his knees. “He will live.”

“If he lives through the day,” Kraznys mo Nakloz grunted. Sansa sucked on her lip. If Saethor were to die…then the other could gang up on Jon. She wanted to say that Jon could win the day even then, but the more she watched his struggle with the giant, the more her doubts lingered.

She glanced towards Daenerys Targaryen. She was so still that Sansa could have imagined that she was stone. _Jon is my bastard brother, but he means far more to you._ Sansa wished she could have said something, but all the words in her mouth just dried up. She took another sip of the water. More than a sip; she felt the water trickle down her chin.

“My daughter.” Ser Barristan’s words were soft and raw. Sansa could see how clutched his throat was. “Are you not well?”

She forced a smile. “I am fine, father. It is just the heat. Is the Andal not splendid? A lesser man would have perished by now.”

“Yes,” Daenerys Targaryen said. “This Andal is not like any other. I doubt any could compare.”

“More than a few,” Ser Barristan said in a low voice. “Ser Arthur Dayne for one. Gerold Hightower. But this Black Hound knows the sword. Fear not, Minisa; I think he will win the day.”

“I think so as well,” said Sansa, determined. “He survived the Abyss, whatever that was.” Daenerys was glancing at her. “He will survive this.”

Kraznys mo Nakloz rose to his feet – but fell onto the chair just as quickly. “YES!” he slobbered. Sansa could have sworn she saw drool. “He got him! Kill him!” Sansa looked to Jon at once, but he was still on his feet. The crowd’s cheer was thundering, and it took Sansa only a moment to discover why. The man with the axe had just carved right through the shoulder of his opponent. He screamed something out as he filled the man’s chest with his axe.

Sansa swallowed bile, but her heart feels light. _Three against two._

 

**THE WOLF IN THE PITS**

 

Golden red sparks flew through the air, dancing along the blades. Hilargo’s side ran crimson with blood, but the man showed no sign of slowing his swings. The man must have had the blood of giants – he was the tallest man Jon had ever seen. He could have crushed Jon to the ground with a single swing…if Jon had allowed him the reach. But Jon had always kept him away, never straying too close for that finishing blow.

 _He is starting to strain. But I’ve long since reached that point._ Hilargo had not managed to strike Jon once, but his endurance seemed to be endless. Far more so than Jon could say for himself. His arms were screaming, and every muscle seemed to be lit aflame. His fingers were twigs, his eyes glass, and every breath was ripping away at his lungs.

But somewhere, Daenerys was watching. In his bones, he knew it. _I cannot die. Not when she is watching._

Hilargo broke away. That was the last thing Jon expected, and he nearly tripped over his own feet. He regained his footing just as he saw the backswing. Jon twisted like a poised snake, and his blade met Hilargo’s. Thunder ripped into his arms, and Jon saw his blade go spinning through the air.

The crowd roared.

Jon’s sandals dug into the sand. The wind threw dirt into his face, and half blind as he was, Jon could see the crimson look in the giant’s eyes.

Jon could dodge all his strikes, but it would mean nothing if he could not reached his sword. And Hilargo would never let him reach it. _I will die here._ Lord Eddard’s bastard son would die far from home. It was fitting, Jon decided. _I am not a Stark. Never was. It was not my place to die in the North._

Daenerys was watching, somewhere. He could not see it in her to keep away. _Run from this place, Dany. Take Daemon and run._ Jon never knew his mother. But Daemon could.

_I could never live as a Stark. Not even die as one. But I could die on my feet._

He shouldered right into Hilargo. It pulled all the wind out of him, but he could feel Hilargo stagger. His chest felt like someone had laid blocks on them, but he could see the look on the bloodsworne’s face. The last thing he expected.

Hilargo swung his blade in a wide arc, but Jon was the fastest between Theon and Robb. He rolled out from the swing, and got to his feet.

He found the edge of the shield slamming right into his cheek. Everything became a blur of colors and sounds. His blood rushed out from his mouth in thick dribbles, trailing from his chin. His vision quaked with every heartbeat. _Away. Get away._ All he could do was crawl, his fingers digging into the sands.

His fingers graced against something, cold and smooth. He knew his sword when he felt it. A long and dark shadow grew over him. Jon turned his head and saw Hilargo, his sword overhead, massive fingers twisted around the hilt. The sun was behind him. Everything was darker.

_Daenerys._

Jon prepared himself the end. It came without pain, without misery. He did not feel the blood gushing through the lips, the last horrid beats of his heart as Hilargo’s sword cut through his chest. He felt…as he did before, with the agony in his muscles and the heat of the Astapori summer on his back.

Jon breathed.

There was a gasp. A bloody groan. Jon looked up and saw a bloody spear emerging from the shoulder of the giant. His shield clanged onto the ground, the clangs as loud as watchtower bells. Jon felt the screams of the crowd ripple through him.

Hilargo had a mad, desperate look in his eyes. His eyes were red, and Jon saw blood trickle down from his broad lips. The giant tried to say something, but it only came out a gurgle. He fell onto his knees, and his fingers dug into the earth. The brown sand turned a deep crimson. Jon rose to his feet, and he saw an axe that had carved itself deep into Hilargo’s side.

Horeah and Saethor breathed, their chests heavy with blood and sweat, their hairs damp and coarse. They said nothing.

The roars of the crowd overwhelmed everything else.

Hilargo looked into Jon’s eyes. His lips tremored as he tried to speak, but there was too much pain in his voice for Jon to understand the words.

The crowd was still a thunderous wave of applause and uproars when Jon saw, at the very distance, a man in a tokar of rich colors and dripping beads rise from a balcony. Jon recognized him at once. _Paraszys sol Nierhols._ As Jon squinted his eyes, he could see that Daenerys sat just a few seats down. And not far off… _No. No. That’s madness._

Paraszys raised his hands, and finally the chants of the crowd began to die away. Once the rumblings of “HOUND! HOUND! HOUND!” trickled into a small murmur, Paraszys spoke. “Grazdan vum Hallazak has produced a formidable contest, but even his greatest has fallen before the bloodsworne of Terzac vo Hrasher! This brotherhood of the Black Hound, this Norvosi and the Qohorik has proven formidable beyond measure! Hilargo, the Titan of Hallazak’s house, has fallen at the Hound’s feet. Tell me, sons and daughters, shall he taste blood this day?”

The roar that answered was so deafening that Jon winced.

“Your will has been made known.” Paraszys sol Nierhols leaned on the railing of the balcony. “Let the Titan of Hallazak perish!”

Hilargo was trembling. Jon could see cold beads of sweat trickle down his face. “Jon,” Saethor said urgently, “what are you waiting for?” He looked towards Jon’s sword. “Kill him already.”

It wasn’t right. Jon knew it in his bones. A man should not declare another’s forfeit just for entertainment. Why should a crowd determine when a man’s life was at an end? Father would never accept such a thing. But Father wasn’t in Astapor. In this place, what was wrong was right, and Jon couldn’t tell the difference anymore. How many men had he killed in these pits? How many masters were entertained?

Jon brought his sword up, and sent it carving into Hilargo’s skull.


	20. The Souls of the City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the sun rises on Astapor, questions are raised, demands made, and doubts rise to the surface.

**XIX**

**THE SOULS OF THE CITY**

 

**THE KINSLAYER**

 

The map was sprawled across the table. Her Grace had gathered all of her captains and advisors of war –her bloodriders, Tareoh Neh Khaluk the Lhazareen, and Jorah. The Shadowbinder was nowhere to be found, for which Jorah was grateful. The same went for the blind priest. That one was just as much Jon Snow’s creature as the Queen’s, and Jorah trusted no ally of a Stark. 

Daenerys Targaryen looked at the map, and that should have been his focus. But Jorah could only look at her. Rarely did the Queen smile these days, save when in the presence of her son. But when she would smile, all Jorah could see was Lynesse. He remembered her; the grace in her steps, the warmth in her fingers, the way her breasts would squeeze when he cupped them, the—

“Ser Jorah.” He blinked and looked towards his queen. Her violet eyes were narrowed and focused. “How quickly could we reach the Hrasher estate?” 

He considered that for a moment. The map was written almost entirely in Bastard Valyrian, but Jorah could make out most of the words. “Astapor is not the largest city I have ever seen. Vaes Dothrak easily dwarfed it, but the problem is not the size. It’s not whatever flimsy opposition we would encounter. The problem is the streets.”

Rakharo narrowed his eyes. “How so?”

“There is no reason to them. Look at how the roads intersect, Your Grace.”

Daenerys looked at the map. She sucked on her lower lip as she studied the lines. “They don’t,” she finally said. “A few times, perhaps, such as here,” she pointed, “and here. But otherwise—“

“Dead ends are everywhere,” he finished for her. “We make a wrong turn, and we will need to double back. That will not be easy for an army, and certainly not one trained in  rigid phalanxes such as the Unsullied.”

The Queen narrowed her eyes. “We will meet with Kraznys mo Nakloz in the Plaza of Pride.” She laid her finger right in the center of the map. “That is here. Am I wrong?”

“You are not, Your Grace.”

She looked pleased. “That places us at an advantage. So many streets lead to that plaza.”

Jhogo snorted at that. “The Masters care only to showcase their flesh, Khaleesi.”

“We can turn their greed to our advantage then. The Alashant estate is in the High Court, as is the plaza. Ser Jorah, would you advise for the Unsullied to spread throughout the city, or for them to stand as one force?”

“Do not divide them,” he said. “You heard what Kraznys mo Nakloz told you. The only officers in their capacity will be those that you install over them. If each century had a captain, I would advise we divide the city and rip the masters apart. But as of now, I can imagine only one man to command them.”

“You.” Jorah inclined his head. “Very well, the Unsullied shall march together. Have you ever led a force of ten thousand before, Ser?”

“All knights have been trained in leadership.” Never mind that the North had no concept of knighthood, but the mounted warriors were just as well. “I was there on the Trident, and at the siege of Pyke.”

Jorah felt the Queen’s violet eyes bore into him. “Have you led ten thousand, Ser?”

“No,” he admitted. 

“How many did you lead on the Trident, and on this siege at Pyke?”

“House Mormont is a proud house, Your Grace.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How many, Ser?”

“Less than a thousand.” 

The Queen turned towards Tareoh Neh Khaluk. “I shall entrust five centuries to your command, Tareoh. You have never failed me before.” Jorah felt a pit grow in his gut. He tightened his fists behind his back. “Do not fail me in this.”

The Lhazareen smiled. “No worse day to start being a disappointment.”

“See you are not.” Daenerys turned her attention to her bloodriders. “When the battle starts, you will stay with my son.”

Jhogo paled, as if he had seen a specter. “Khaleesi, our place is at your side. We are the blood-of-your-blood. Let us shed blood in your honor.”

The Queen did not flinch. Her face was still, her violet eyes focused on the Dothraki. “Your place is where I command it. It would glorify me to see my son live, at all costs. He cannot remain in Kraznys’ pyramid once the trap is sprung.”

Jorah knew the look in the man’s eyes. He was shamed to have been refused. Jhogo wanted nothing more than to kill. Jorah had heard the frustrations of the khalasar, their grumblings as they sheltered in the mountains, and then as they fumbled in the dark shadows of the masters. If Jhogo had his way, he would have cut his way to Jon a month ago. And Eddard Stark’s bastard would be dead, and the rest of them along with him.  “All I do,” he said, “I do for your glory, Khaleesi.”

“Good.” Satisfied, she turned towards Jorah. “Ser, what else needs to be addressed?”

“A plan for your escape, should--”

“No. If the Unsullied turn on us, my bloodriders will cut their way through towards the gate. And you will join them, and do all you can to place my son on the Iron Throne. Above all else, I command that from you.”

_ Do you have faith in me? Do you believe me to be true? Or am I your last course?  _ “I do as my queen commands. There is one matter.” Jorah felt the Dothraki turn their gaze on him, but Jorah paid them no heed. He focused only on the Queen. “What of Sansa Stark?”

For a moment, Daenerys said nothing. “I offered her my protection. She chose to stay with Barristan Selmy. There is nothing I can do for her, should the worst happen. I need to have faith in them both, that they can do what must be done.”

“If that is the case,” he said, “then why march on the Hrasher estate at all? Let us focus our attention on the rest of the Skyward Court. The great families of Astapor--” 

“All of you, leave us.” The Queen tucked her fingers behind her back. “I would have words with my Queensguard alone.”

“Khaleesi,” said Aggo, “there is still—“

“Now.” Her words offered no room for argument. With a reluctant bow, her bloodriders left the room. Tareoh followed them, but not before he offered Jorah a wary glance. “You are right, Ser Jorah. There is still one matter we need to address. Between you and myself.”

Jorah felt a pit emerge in his gut. “Majesty, I have been loyal to you.”

“As well as to yourself.” Her words bit through the air. “How many times have you tried to divert me from Jon Snow? Do not go to Astapor, think of your son, the Masters will turn on us, seek westward and find companies of sellswords to purchase. On and on, all your advice, all your words would seal the fate of your rightful king.” 

Jorah made to speak, but Daenerys silenced him with a glare. “Do not think to speak, Ser, until I permit you. How often had you advised me to turn aside my other advisors? I understand the threats of Quaithe well enough, but still you lecture me of her as if I was still that wide-eyed girl in Pentos. How many times did you try to steer Tareoh’s words away from me, just because he had at most led a company of a few hundred men? And worst of all, the one thing I can hardly bear from you, is how you would prefer No-Eyes to keep silent.”

“I have never spoken against the blind man.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. “Eyes speak as easily as the mouth does, Ser Jorah. And I  _ see  _ the mistrust you have for him. The one man who has proven his loyalty far more than you. You would push all my advisors away, even he who had risked his life to save mine from Khal Drogo. And that, I will not stand for. If you had your way, I would have you, and you alone.”

_ What does she think of me?  _ “Your Grace, that is not true. I mean only to protect you.”

“Protect me?” Her words cut through the air. She stepped forward. “Were you protecting me when you abandoned Jon to the slavers? Were you protecting me when you allowed my brother to sell me to Khal Drogo? How is it that the bastard son of Eddard Stark was willing to say what a knighted trueborn would not?” 

_ Because of home. I must earn back what I lost.  _ “That was before.”

“Before my dragons.”

Jorah shook his head. “No,” he insisted. “Before I saw your strength. I saw only a scared little girl. That’s all you were before. But the Dothraki Sea changed you. Viserys was a shadow of a snake, but I hoped that shadow had a chance to bring me home.”

“And what am I to you now, Ser Jorah?”

“A future,” he said. “One worth living in. One worth dying for. I thought when I fled for Essos, all was lost. I would not forsake you, not now. I have only wanted to prove myself.”

The Queen was very still, but her eyes were scathing. “Leave me, Ser Jorah.”

He shivered. “Your Grace—“ 

“I need some peace before the morrow.” The Queen raised her head, and she seemed so much taller than she was. “Go.” He could only do as she commanded. His steps felt as heavy as iron, and when he opened the door, the wood seemed to groan like a dying boar. 

He looked over his shoulder. The Queen did not turn to face him. Jorah felt tempted to say something, but he swept it aside. His footsteps echoed as he made his way down the halls, his fingers felt stiff, and a bitter taste rode across his mouth. 

His heart was thundering in his chest.  _ She has no trust in me.  _ He had followed her into the mountains of Astapor, and had never wavered. He told her of Lyn, whose face haunted him in the darkness. Whenever she asked him for counsel, he granted it, despite how she never approved of the words.  _ She could throw away all for the sake of Eddard Stark’s bastard.  _ How could she be so foolish, so short sighted, so focused on her wants instead of her duties, so…so…

_ So young.  _ Her Grace had brought dragons into the world, had survived Khal Drogo, plotted against the Good Masters, endured the abuses of her brother, but for all that she was a young woman. A woman with desires of the heart. Jorah looked down at his hand.  _ I killed my cousin for such wants.  _ How old was Joer when Jorah plunged a knife into his neck? The boy had not even seen his twentieth year. He had accompanied Jorah to Pyke, was one of the hundred men Jorah had under his command. 

Joer was there at Lannisport. “She is a Hightower,” he had laughed in their tent. Jorah could still remember the harsh sound of the music. Players plucking at the strings on their lutes, a useless and aggravating noise if there ever was one. Lynesse had adored it, would beg for Jorah to summon singers from the Reach to play on Bear Island. “Find yourself some easier prey, Coz.” 

A cold wind was blowing through the carved out windows. For just a moment, Jorah thought he was home once again. He could almost smell the scent of pine as it  swirled in the air, hear the water bubbling over the river stones, taste the frosty air. And his father, Lord Jeor…he had thought too much of the Old Bear as of late. His words were always a clear, a deep rasp of a voice, but his face was covered in shadows. 

_ I have forgotten the face of my father.  _ The realization almost stole the breath from him. Lord Mormont was the Lord Ccommander on the Wall…for how many years? “Let me be the Lord of Bear Island.” Jorah felt his fingers shake.  _ What kind of son was I? What breed of man?  _

Soft footsteps tapped against the polished floor. Jorah turned. “No-Eyes.” The man stood in the hall, his hands crossed behind his back. Blind though he may be, he used no stick or staff to find his way. Jorah had seen men without sight suffer on the streets, feeling their surroundings in desperation. But the blind priest walked as proudly as any other. That thought sent a shiver through Jorah’s gut.  _ What allows you to do that? What else can you see?  _

“Jorah the Andal.” The man’s voice was weighed down by the Dothraki accent, but he spoke the Common Tongue well and clear. In all his travels across Essos, Jorah had never met a Dothraki that had the patience to learn the Common Tongue. No-Eyes was the first, and that always unnerved Jorah. “So you know what will come next?”

“More than you,” Jorah said. “I was a part of the Queen’s war council. Not you.”

The priest smiled. “Even so, the words of House Targaryen are known. Fire and Blood; is it not so?”

Jorah could not refute that. “It is so.”

No-Eyes nodded. “Good. Jon Snow had been in chains for too long. Bondage has a tendency to make one forget himself. And a man that does not know himself is not a man at all.”

“Slavery is an abomination.”

“It is.” Jorah was surprised to hear that. The Dothraki lived off of the wages of slavery. Rapers and slavers, all of them. The Free Cities paid well for the Dothraki Hordes to steer clear of their polished walls. Jorah knew that the khalasar followed the Queen only for the power that her dragons provided. No doubt they recoiled at the thought of putting an end to slavery in Astapor. “But slavery is not the only path one can take to forgetting themselves.”

“Enough of these riddles,” Jorah grunted. “Speak sense.” 

No-Eyes took a confident step towards him. “I know not the how of it, but your past binds you to the Khaleesi. You walk on desperate ground, Jorah the Andal.”

“I would not be questioned by you. I am not desperate.”

“This one never spoke of desperation.” No-Eyes was very still. “I will tell you something that I told Jon Snow. One cannot walk beneath two skies. One cannot be loyal and put others before themselves. One cannot enjoy the fruits of the world and expect to live forever.” No-Eyes tilted his head. “You are not loyal to the Khaleesi.”

Jorah grabbed the man by the collar of his robe. He had half expected the man to push back, but No-Eyes hardly flinched. “I told you I will not be questioned! I vowed to serve Daenerys Targaryen!”

“Words arend wind,” the priest said. He smelled of the dirt of the earth. Jorah had almost forgotten the smell of it, after so many days among the Astapori with their perfumed flesh and oiled beards. “A man can vow with one hand, and hold a dagger in the other. I know of such a thing. You cannot swear loyalty to the Khaleesi, when you favor yourself most of all.” 

Jorah tightened his grip. “Speak sense, or can you read minds? Did they teach you that in whatever sinkhole you crawled from?”

The man smiled. “That and more, Jorah Mormont. Tell me – what is an Andal doing in Essos?”

“Why don’t you ask Jon Snow that question?”

“I am not asking Jon Snow. I am asking you. What kind of Andal walks among the Dothraki, when home calls to him? You fought against the father of the Khaleesi, but then you swore loyalty to her brother, and now to her. Tell me, Andal – what kind of man should I call that?”

It would have been all too easy to throw the man to the ground. “One who has found someone worth following. What of you priest? As soon as Khal Drogo was fed to the pyres, you were all too quick to bow before the Queen. Of all the people to question my honor, you should be last in line.”

No-Eyes said nothing, for a moment. “Yes,” he said, slowly and softly under his breath. “You are right. But it takes a man with no loyalties to know another. Make it known, Jorah of the Andals – how are you and I so different? We are the same breed of men, and the worms will fish out our eyes when our lives are spent.” He smiled, and a chill gripped Jorah’s chest. “Well, your eyes perhaps. Khal Bharbo burnt mine out years ago.”

 

**THE BLACK GOAT**

 

If there was one thing to be said of Tareoh Neh Khaluk, let it be said that he hated to wait. He never felt more sure than when a sword was in his hand. Give him a weapon – the curved arakh, spear, dagger or crescent axe – anything with an edge and a bite. Put an enemy in front of him, or a plan to stalk in the dark. Those were the moments when Tareoh felt most alive.  _ The gods made me to live in danger.  _

And if there was one thing to be said of the Khaleesi, let it be said that she did not shy from danger. She could have run from Astapor and condemned Jon Snow to death in the Blood Pits. That would guarantee their boy a chance at life, but Daenerys was willing to take the risk. Tareoh admired that in her. 

And as she went over her plans, Tareoh’s heart raced.  _ This  _ is what Khal Drogo promised and failed to do. Death to the masters, turn Astapor into ash and cinders, bring firefind and sword to those that had sponsored raids on Lhazar for generations. When word spread that Khal Drogo needed men, when his riders spread the message that Astapor had to suffer for the horrors they had committed on the people of Lhazar, Tareoh answered. He imagined a warlord on his horse leading the Horde against Astapor. He never would have imagined that a small woman with hair like silver would do what her husband could not.

But it was happening.  _ Tomorrow, Astapor burns.  _ The idea filled Tareoh with a rush. The Good Masters had feasted on olives and wine for too long.  _ They do love to oil their beards.  _ He wondered what those beards would look like when engulfed in fire. 

All he could do was dream and imagine. His hands were shaking with excitement. He hadn’t been like this since he carved Khal Korollo’s head with an arakh. He was half a boy then, and still had a full pair of eyes. His fingers traced over the edge of the abyss that consumed half of his face. How did he survive that arrow? Questions for the gods, but say one thing of Tareoh, say he won’t leave enough alone.

_ Perhaps I was meant to be here _ . That put a wide smile on his face.  _ Hear that, Krollo? I killed you because I was meant to put all you slaving shits to grass.  _ Well, with a little help from the Mother of Dragons, of course. 

He shouldn’t be so restless. He was with the Golden Company when they fended off the Myrmen. He was stranded on the Grass Sea after Khal Krollo had ripped apart his small company of men. He had to survive in the night on his own, clinging to earth as the Dothraki swept the grass for survivors. The darkness was his mother that night; he nursed from the shadows like a babe taken to breast. Tareoh did not feel so anxious then, even as death drew coiled its fingers around his throat. 

He had been dreaming of this all his life. The sons of Lhazar had dreamt of this. How many were born on the hills and died in far away lands, with chains wrapped around their throats, praying all the whileed and died for this to happen? How many were born in strange places like Qarth and Norvos whothat would never see the hills of Lhazar, the rivers Aquvsta and Tujhka, hear the morning songs of the Shepheard Priests, hear the words of the Covenant of the Flock? 

Their prayers and dreams would be answered tomorrow. When the sun sets, Astapor wouldshall burn. From his window, Tareoh could see the moon, full and glowing, against the dark sky. It should be a red moon.  _ The Dothraki claim they were born under such a moon, when the dragons died. Perhaps the dragons should be revealed to all the world again under another crimson moon.  _

He felt his teeth clatter and shake inside of his mouth. Tareoh rose to his feet, and sucked in the damp air. Astapor was relentless; even in the night, Tareoh could feel his hair clinging to his skin. No wonder Slaver’s Bay produced monsters like the Masters, if this was the heat they were born into. 

Tareoh threw on a robe and left his chamber. He would not find any sleep, not with his heart thundering in his chest. He had to walk the halls, and Tareoh found that the air was somewhat cooler and. The air had less of an oppressive weight in their wide spanning halls.  _ How many men died to laybuild these stones?  _ His rage tightened his throat in a grip. He forced his fingers to form a fist, and his knuckles rattled from the strain.  _ One step, two steps, three...  _

And when he made the third step, he heard the shuffling of feet. “What of you, priest?” He’d knoew that sour sounding voice from anywhere. Lightly, he made his way towards the corner, and peered around. Jorah the Andal was holding the Dothraki priest in a tight grip, his fingers wrapped around the collar of the blind man’s robe. The man was smiling.  _ Poor time to be jovial.  _ “Khal Bharbo burnt mine out years ago.”  _ Or maybe it is the perfect time. _

Still, it would not do for word to spread that two of the Khaleesi’s most favoured advisors came to blows. He turned the corner, and coughed. The Andal turned, and, as soon as he saw Tareoh, he released his grip. “It is a late night to be walking the halls,” Tareoh said as he stepped closer, a small smile on his lips. “Even later to be having heated conversation. Who knows whom could hear?”

The bald Andal raised his head. A feeble attempt at pride if Tareoh ever saw one. “It is late. We should all get some rest for what the morrow brings. Goodnight, Lhazareen.” 

Tareoh gave a nod. “Goodnight, Andal.” The knight shuffled his way past, leaving Tareoh alone with No-Eyes. “For a blind man, you have a wonderful talent for drawing attention to yourself.”

“We all have our hidden talents, Tareoh of Lhazar. Just as you have a wonderful sense of character.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t say that. I would hardly be in this mess in the first place if that was the case.”

“You bore witness to the birth of dragons.” The blind one drew close to Tareoh. “I would hardly call that a mess.”

“What else would you call this? We’re masquerading as slavers in a city full of them, andwhen we are planning to pull a veil over their eyes.”

No-Eyes smiled. “A veil, yes. But one cast in dragonfire, I think, rather than silk. I feel inclined to make my way to the garden. Would you care to join me?”

“I suspect that is less an invitation, and more a veiled threat.”

“There seems to be many a veiled threat being spread around, as of late. Come.” TareohHe followed, despite how the garden was the last place he wanted to be. The Mother of Dragons had spent many an hour in the garden, dipping one toe in the pond while she consulted with her captains, watching her children fly and screech in the sky, or some other activity that was  _ not  _ planning the doom of the masters. It reminded him too much of all the time they had spent in Astapor; of all the days when the masters were not getting their due. 

The garden had a sweet scent that reminded Tareoh of honey. He could recall make out the names of a few flowers – the grandiflorums and the acacias – but all the rest were alien to him. Somehow, Kraznys mo Nakloz had managed to gethave frail flowers with spiraling petals to flourish in the hellish heat of his homeland. The sound of trickling water was ever present in the distance. Tareoh supposed that had something to do with it. 

“This is a good spot,” No-Eyes decided. There was a stone bench that was nestled beneath the shade of a cypress. He did not hesitate to lay downon the bench and stretch out his legs. His toes wiggled in the thin darkness. Rays of moonglow shrouded the leaves and water in a cool light. The priest slipped the sandals from his feet and saunk his toes into the grass, and let out a long sigh. “It’s been too long since my feet felt something soft. Astapor is too hard. Nothing but rocks and stones and bricks. Don’t you miss the feeling of grassblades between your toes, Tareoh?”

He gave a shrug, not that the old man could see it. “Lhazar is not known for its grassy knolls. Many a times a judge would be summoned to handle a dispute over one patch of green land or another. it wWould rarely come to blood. The Lhazareen are not known for their wars.”

“No,” said No-Eyes, his head leaning back, his toes digging into the earth, “no, we are not.”

Tareoh squinted. “You are Dothraki.”

“My father wais Dothraki. He spread his seed, as the Dothraki are known to do, and my mother was the unwilling field.” No-Eyes brought a finger to his lips. “Hush, that is a secret. Only you and the Khaleesi know. There wereAnd a few others, but they have been given to the grass.”

“How did you come to serve the Khal?”

“By having serving served his father. And that is a long and bloody tale, one I am not inclined to tell. I am curious of you, Black Goat.”

He snorted. “What is there to be curious about? I swore my arakh to the Khaleesi before she became the Mother of Dragons.”

“That,” No-Eyes said with a pointed finger. “One could understand why you Rams aligned yourself with Drogo. He promised you vengeance, and his riders sang a pretty song of justice for all the atrocities the Masters of Astapor had inflicted upon you. Never mind that the Dothraki did most of the enslaving and killing, and the masters just paid them for it. But what did the Khaleesi offer?” The priest scratched at his beard. “Well, besides the promise of a child. Her swollen belly was proof enough of that. But you were all expecting a son of the Grass Sea. Tell me, what did you think when you saw Daenerys step out from the flames, with a pale son sucking at her breast?”

Tareoh sucked on his lip. “I was more occupied byon the dragons. And the fact that she had stepped out of the flames. That was quite the sight stealer.”

No-Eyes smiled. “I wouldn’t know.”

“I suppose not.”

“But there are things I would know. You still haven’t answered my query. Why did you gather a number of your Ramsmen for the Khaleesi’s cause?”

“Does it matter?” His voice was a rasp. “I was there for her when the Golden Horde deserted her. Worse may have happened if not for my Rams.”

No-Eyes folded his fingers at his lap. “Your words are true. Instead of being wrapped in flame, the Khaleesi could have been skewered. The world would have been a great deal worse off. We all would have been in peril. The Khaleesi brought us together, found us salvation in the red mountains.” He licked his lips. “The dragons united us, Dothraki and Lhazareen.”

“Aye. The dragons.” Tareoh could not imagine he would ever forget the sight of Daenerys Taragryen emerging from the fire. Did he fall to his knees? Tareoh could not remember. But he remembered his oath to her. Tears had streaked down his stained cheek. Ash stung his eyes, but Tareoh didn’t care. In the flames, the Khaleesi had found the answer to his people’s prayers. “Is that what you want to know? Well, if anything, Tareoh of Lhazar is an honest man. I remained loyal and true to the Khaleesi  _ only  _ because of the dragons. And so have countless others of her followers. As I recall, her bloodriders only declared themselves to be of her blood the moment she left the flames.”

“You are not wrong.”

“So why these questions? You think I am like Jorah the Andal?”

The priest’s face tightened. “No,” he said slowly, “you are not like Jorah. I can trust you.”

Tareoh understood the implication. “But you cannot trust the old Andal.”

No-Eyes smiled, and something about it unnerved him. “You have the right of it. The Rams never fled in the wake of Khal Drogo’s death. Despite your doubts, you remained, while he fled.” He tilted his head. “Why?”

“As I recall, I said something about not wanting to see a babe being killed at his mother’s breast.”

The priest shrugged. “I would not know.” A strong wind blew, and the leaves rattled in the dark. Leaves of the cypress were a dark green, but in the shadow of the night, Tareoh could only made out black blades. The wind blew out a pretty song with the leaves. “I was dealing with demons of my own. Does that surprise you, Lhazareen, that a knowing man is hounded by spectrers?”

“Once. But you are not the only knowing man here. I don’t walk your path, I don’t subscribe myself to your teachings, but I know a thing or two. Every man has ghosts.”

Despite his namesake, it seemed No-Eyes looked at him. “That he does. But was it just a desire to see Daemon live that pushed you to serve the Khaleesi?”

Tareoh shook his head. “No.”

“Then why?”

He rubbed at his beard. “Because I don’t trust the Dothraki. And don’t you say that there is just as much goat in the horse as there is horse in sheep. I don’t trust the horselords. I didn’t trust Khal Drogo and his bloodriders.”

“Even now?” Tareoh could feel the abyss peering into him. “The Khaleesi’s bloodriders swore life and servitude to her.”

“After the dragons. I promised to help her, even before. Before the stallions, the rams surrounded a pregnant woman, and swore to protect her babe. And all we ask in return is what her husband promised. Jon Snow stood with us. When did the Dothraki ever stand with us? So I have reasons to believe in the Khaleesi. And every reason to distrust the Dothraki. Perhaps even you.”

“That was very wise.” No-Eyes smiled. “You may even be wiser than the Khaleesi. Who should trust a man that has turned on his master? How can you trust a man without eyes?”

 

**THE CAPTAIN**

 

The Westerosi were restless. They were in their cabins, and a lesser captain would have mistaken the creaks of the ship as the gentle caress of the water. But Groleo was no lesser captain. He had weathered the seas long enough to have half a dozen children, and so many grandchildren that he confused their names all the time. Not that he didn’t love them, of course, but there it is. He knew when to sail and when to row, how to manage a crew, and he had never missed a deadline. Never saved his employers a great deal of money, but never cost them a great deal either. Say one thing for Groleo Tahartis, say that he is consistent. That was how he caught the careful mind of Illyrio Mopatis, and that was how Groleo became a very comfortable man. 

And all that was the reason why Groleo knew the Westerosi were not sleeping easily in their bunks. He would never understand how anyone could not sleep like a babe ona vessel. Nothing could put a man to sleep like the gentle caress of the waves. Almost like being a baby, except for the scurvy. But that is why Groleo always had an extra barrel of lime on his cog - nothing could ruin a good voyage like a bad outbreak of scurvy. 

The creaks weren’t coming from the keel. When the ship would tilt as the waves hit it, the keel would let out a small gasp from the aftershock. You wouldn’t hear it on the main deck, but the closer to the hold you got, the more pronounced it was. You’d feel it in your bones. 

The knight was not circling in his cabin like a caged lion. That was good – the old man had some confidence in himself. He was twisting and turning in his bed, most like. Groleo could not blame him. What they planned to do tomorrow, what the Targaryen girl had thrust upon them, was dangerous. If nothing else, trying to pull one over on a Ghiscari Master was an insult that they would not tolerate. 

It was the girl, Sansa Stark, who was pacing in her room. She did not rest easy, that fiery headed girl.  _ That woman has more craftiness and daring than sense.  _ Groleo doubted any of his small granddaughters could have come up with arranging that meeting with the Dragon Queen. Almost seemed like something out of one of those Braavosi plays that had the braavo pulling off an absurd feat with just the skin on his teeth. 

More than a few times, Groleo thought of knocking on her door to give her some bit of bottled wisdom, something to calm her down. He would do the same with all his daughters and sons. Artoro was a nervous wreck the night before he got married…that is until Groleo got some drink in him. Then he calmed down real quick. But the Westerosi girl…Groleo  suspected that a little drink would not do much for her.

Groleo found himself leaning into his chair. Less leaning, more sinking, if he was honest with himself. He had gained too many stones over the years, and the years had caught up with him, and his precious leather chair was groaning in protest. Let it groan; Groleo did not see it breaking any time soon, and his love for the finer things in life wasere too great. His beloved Agartha and all her persistence could not break his habits; what power did a chair have over him? 

He was peering out the gallery window, where he could see the gentle waves caress the  _ Saduleon.  _ That was always a way to calm him. A bottle of Tyroshi peach brandy helped, but it was the waves of the sea that Groleo needed. Whenever a crossroad was upon him, Groleo would go to his cabin and consider the sea. 

Tomorrow would be dangerous. 

Groleo supposed that went without saying. They were walking right into the harpy’s nest, and were about to snatch the golden egg right from under its talons. If Terzac vo Hrasher knew that the man he bought as a bloodsworne was the son of a Westerosi noble…well, whatever he planned to sell him for, it was not nearly enough. Assuming he would even sell him at all – he may hold him for the lions. Sansa Stark said the Lannisters would pay dearly for him. Whomever they were, Groleo assumed they could outspend the knight and the girl a hundred times over. 

All that was obvious and clear as day, but Groleo needed to repeat it. It was easy to think of a plan, but once you dwelt on it, you would begin to realize all of the thousand ways it could go to shit. And this plan had more than a thousand ways. If it were a ship, Groleo would order it to be condemned, and insist the man that cooked it up be put on trial for mutiny. 

But it was the best one they had, and as a captain, Groleo learned that sometimes one must make do with what they had. If the sail had been eaten by moths, then the men needed to give up their shirts and patch it up. In their case, it meant fucking a harpy in the ass and hoping he didn’t notice. 

Groleo was not afraid for his life. He had ensured his Agartha would be provided for. If one thing could be said about him, it was that he lived a full life. Especially with this talk of dragons having been returned to the world. Sure, he would prefer to die in peace, preferably with all of his family crowded like lobsters into the room, but a man could not always get what he wanted. He would use the deck that R’hllor provided him. 

It was the crew that concerned him. Groleo was the captain of the  _ Saduleon _ , but the  _ Joso’s Prank  _ and the  _ Summer Sun  _ were also under his command. The fates of all three, from the first mate to the cook, were tied to his own. If their plot was revealed, it would be more than the head of Groleo and Barristan Selmy on pikes. 

Astapor would never forgive that insult. All three cogs would be done for, and R’hllor give mercy to their crew, because the Good Masters would provide none. 

If he was a wiser man, and perhaps a more cowardly one, he would sail away right now. Cowardice and wisdom went hand in hand, so that made Groleo brave and stupid. A strange time to develop either trait, but that was the nature of the beast. He would not abandon the Westerosi. R’hllor help him, Groleo had grown fond of his cargo. 

The plan was to have been a simple one. Retrieve Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow and leave. It wasn’t meant to be walking on nails, except all the nails were harpies, and the harpies would kill them first chance they had. Granted, there was a chance that Astapor would have been ruled by horse lords, but Groleo could have worked with that. The Dothraki were stupid, and stupid men tended to underestimate fat sea captains who did not survive thirty years on the sea by mere luck. 

The problem was, the Dothraki  hadn’t taken over Astapor. It was the Good Masters that held it, and the Astapori were not stupid. Short-sighted to a fault, and with grotesque appetites, but not stupid. The slaver cities that rested on the Worm had done so for nearly a thousand years, had withstood the fall of Old Valyria, and outlived ancient and glorious Valyria. 

The more Groleo thought on it, the more he realized he needed a drink. “Too much worry will decay a man’s soul,” he said, to no one in particular. The peach brandy was sweet on his lips, and it broke away the dread that built up in his stomach. Not all of it, though, for he was still thinking of his crew.  _ If something should happen, they are all dead.  _ If it was just his head for the block, fine. He would regret never being able to hold any of his grandchildren in his arms again, but so be it. If that was the fate the Lord of Light had in store for him, Groleo would accept it.

But for the shadow of death to take the lives of all those under his command? Groleo could not accept that. 

And yet, he would not sail. No matter how long he dwelt on the dangers of the morrow, he would not abandon the Westerosi. Barristan Selmy would not want to admit it, but he needed Groleo. And Sansa Stark, she had to know it. Groleo had at first thought her a silly young girl, foolishly out of her depths. But no foolish girl could have arranged that meeting with Daenerys Targaryen.  _ She is smarter than her pretty smiles let on.  _ Gods help whoever marries her. Not even a king would have an easy time of it. 

“A king,” he said with a snort.  _ If I should live to see such a thing, I should tell her that Groleo is a fine name for a prince.  _ “Prince Groleo of Someplace and Somewhere.” 

He gave his beard a few long and lingering scratches before he put the glass down. The brandy was great for drowning the demons in his belly, but it also made him far too romantic for his own good.  _ It will only get more dangerous.  _ Suppose that they managed to rescue Jon Snow from the claws of the harpy. They got away scot free, with no complications, with no hint of the wool they were pulling over the eyes of the masters. Groleo had met this Dragon Queen.  She would not be content with living out the rest of her days in a Pentoshi manse, attended to by servants, and having a dozen children by Jon Snow. She would not have brought dragons into the world if she really wanted a life of peace.  _ She would have sold her eggs and bought a life of splendour for the next three generations if that was the case.  _

Groleo thought on those eggs. Illyrio had sent him to Asshai to retrieve them. “You will meet with a shadowbinder by the name of Ahmon Thiath. Do not give him reason to rebuke you. Not if you value your life.” When Groleo imagined the shadowbinder, he did not expect a man that hid behind a mask, nor did he expect his eyes to be so gold and piercing, or that his shadowy cloak seemed to swallow in all of the light in the room. The chest was etched in letters that filled Groleo with dread, and he had to admit, he was afraid to even look at it. 

What were the eggs to Illyrio? Groleo had thought on that often ever since he had set sail for Asshai, and that was well over a year ago. A single egg could set someone up in comfort for a lifetime. Three of them…how much of an investment was that? And why would Illyrio just gift it to the wife of a warlord?

Questions upon questions, Groleo did not survive for near fifty years on the sea by asking questions.  _ Head down, and a smile on my lips. Those are my rules.  _ He had no reason to break them now. 

 

**THE MONSTER**

 

Arekor’s words were caught in his throat. His bad eye  watered and itched. The Master looked at him, his eyes narrowed. He sipped from a bronze goblet filled with his favorite wine. Yunkai’i muscats were sweetest at this time of the year, and the Master favored them beyond all else. “Do you hear me, Arekor? Tell me that you understand.”

He gave a stiff nod. His flesh felt as flexible as iron. “Your words have been made known, Master.” He felt saliva gather around his lips. He sucked it back in with a disgusting slurp. 

“But do you understand?” 

For a moment, Arekor could not breathe. Then it all came out in a rush; “After the Andal is sold, none shall train me. I will never again lift a sword.”

The Master’s fingers circled the lips of his goblet.  “I allowed Jon to humor you. But if all goes well tomorrow, he will no longer belong to this house. I will not allow you to pester any of my other bloodsworne with your request.”

“I understand, Master.” The words were poison in his throat. 

The Master turned to face the window. The night sky had taken on a soft black and Arekor could see the distant light of the stars’ glow against the darkness. The Master’s fingers tapped against the wood. “You are safe here, Arekor. Even if you managed to pass the Proving, you would not survive long in the Blood Pits. You will live to see my grandchildren. That is a blessing.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Go. The Westerosi and his daughter will want to be attended when they arrive, and I will not hear that you slouched in your duties because you did not have sleep.” 

Arekor made his way out of the chamber. The Master did not turn to see him leave. Arekor almost bumped his head into the frame of the door, but he caught himself. His monstrous toes felt heavy as iron. His steps had always felt large and cumbersome, but their weight was all the more apparent in the wake of the Master’s commands.

_ I will never fight in the Blood Pits.  _ The realization sent a dagger through him. He felt his heart beating and throbbing in his chest. He felt tears gather in his eye and with shame he angrily wiped them away. All he wanted was to fight with sword in hand, and to have the crowd know his name. He would imagine standing in the center of the blood pits. The walls were as high as the sky,  the stands were filled from end to end with people, and they all shouted out his name. 

In his dreams, Astapor loved him. 

In the day, the sunlight would be soaked into the pink stones of the halls. Of Master’s home.  _ My home. My life. My grave. I was raised in these halls, as a small and broken thing, and I will die here, as a discarded monster.  _ But in the night, Arekor could only see shadows, and the dark orange rays set off by the lanterns. The silk was a brilliant gold when cast against the light of the candles. Arekor remembered how as a boy, he would hold his withered arm with his one good hand and he would stare at the small lights.  _ They are small and withered, like me. But they cast a beautiful glow, unlike I.  _

The Alashant turned the corner. He was dressed in the boiled leather of his predecessors, patched over and over by a thousand different hands. His flesh, as dark as the night sky, was covered in scars, andbut his face was harder than stone. The pressing of his boots echoed down the halls. “Arekor.” His voice was a deep drawl, wrapped in an iron tone that demanded respected. And respect he was given. “Where are you coming from?”

Arekor bowed his head. He was a head taller than the Alashant, but he felt small in the man’s presence. “The Master summoned me.”

The Alashant’s golden eyes softened. “Ah,” he breathed, “I understand. Know that it is for the best. You understand, do you not?”

Arekor would not show shame in his eyes, despite everything. “Yes, Alashant, I do.”

He gave a nod. “Good. Now get some rest. Should be an eventful day tomorrow.”

Tomorrow would a sorrow. Arekor’s one chance for glory would be sold off to a son of Westeros. But Arekor did not say those things. He bowed his head and wished the Alashant a good night. He turned his head and watched the Alashant make his way into the Master’s chamber. 

Arekor made his way towards the training pit. His feet were large and clumsy on the smooth steps, but they were not as loud as before. The Andal had showed him the way. “Your toes are angles apart. Are you a duck?” No, Arekor would say. “You are a man. Walk like a man. Stand like a man. Fight as one.”  _ None had ever called me a man before.  _ It was always monster or beast, perhaps servant and slave if the high masters were gracious. 

Should he feel shame? The gods had crafted the low to serve the high. The Graces preached that from all the steps of all the temples in the city, and throughout the world. Slavery had allowed Essos to be the light of the world. The Free Cities paled when compared to the glory of Ghis, but even they were a shining beacon against the dregs of Westeros. The world was lifted on the back of slaves. 

But Arekor wanted to fight. His blood had to water the sands.  _ Why should I grow old, when others die with glory on their hearts and their names on the lips of thousands?  _ It did not seem fair. He had only one good arm, but it was a monstrous thing of muscle and meat. He could only see out of one eye, but that just meant he had to be more careful. Everyone called him a beast. Let him prove those words true, and tear with fangs of steel. 

Arekor descended, and the damp heat of the manse perished before the cool air that breathed through the tunnels. The paths were small and narrow; Arekor had to dip his head low to avoid bumping into the ceiling. Often times his brittle hair would swoop over his face, and he would need to sweep it away from his sight. 

The tunnels were empty. Arekor saw some candles casting a radiant glow in the distance, but only a few. It mattered not. Arekor had walked these tunnels a thousand times since he was purchased, and many times in the dark after all the bloodsworne had fallen asleep. The lack of light meant nothing to him. He knew the way. 

_ One day I will enter the tunnels, and I will perish in darkness.  _ The years would claim him, and one day he would stagger his way into the dark tunnels…and he would never come out. The thought left a bitter taste on his lips - all those years of hoping and mad dreams, crumbling to ash before him.

His room was shrouded in darkness, but Arekor knew the stones and their cracks. It was more home to him than any other place within the estate. His fingers grazed over the earth, and he could almost see the iron bars in the darkness. He pushed on them with a tap, and the iron squeaked and moaned. A bed of straw awaited him in the corner. 

Arekor let out a heavy breath. He was not ready to dream. He could defy the Master in this one small way. He left the bed of straw behind, and wandered. He felt the ache in his joints spread. It wasn’t so bad when Arekor was beneath the freedom of the open sky, but the longer Arekor remained in the cramped tunnels, the more his monstrous body protested. When he was a child, the pain was unrelenting. Small blades that writhed beneath his toes and through his knees. But now, full grown, he had the strength to endure it. The pain never left him. 

He was drawn to the training pit. Arekor could hear the distant noise of insects fluttering in the dark air. He was shrouded in darkness. He could only see his fingers when he brought them before his face. The only lights to be seen were the stars.  _ The eyes of the gods.  _ The Graces proclaimed that one could view the gods, if one knew how to look. But when Arekor looked into the sky, he saw only darkness and light. 

Arekor felt alone, save for the insects and wind that pulled at the weeds. 

Then he heard the buzzing of wings in his ear. He turned and saw the balls of light, dancing in the air. They were so small that if Arekor blinked, he would have missed them. So he focused and watched as the light twirled and flew across the air. They were firebugs, small creatures that had flames attached to their bodies. 

Arekor saw one of the small glimmers fly towards him. With his breath caught in his throat, Arekor raised up his hand, broad fingers outstretched. His flesh tickled as the bug landed on him. The pounding of the small wings scratched in the air. The bug shone in a radiant glow.  _ A small fire.  _ Arekor had a fire in him too, small and pathetic, but the bug was beautiful.  _ But one day your fire will go out, just as mine will. You will always be beautiful, though.  _

He heard the scratching of sandals on the sand. He turned and saw Jon standing before him. “Arekor.”

“Jon,” he said. He turned his head back towards the firebugs, but they had gone. “What are you doing here?” He wiped the spittle of drool that hung from his lips. 

The Andal answered with a shrug. “Same as you. Sleep escaped me.”

_ Sleep seems as fleeing as my dreams.  _ “So, you know.”

He gave a reluctant nod. “I know. Tomorrow I will be sold.”

“You may not,” Arekor said quickly, hopeful and desperate. He clenched and unraveled his fist, and calmed himself. “It has happened before.”  _ But not to someone that has survived on his own against a titan.  _

In the full light of day, it would be said that Jon’s eyes were gray, like well-worn steel. But in the night below the stars, they were deep dark pools. “No,” he said. “I know what will happen.” He turned from Arekor then. Towards what, he could not say. “What do you know of them? My purchasers.”

“They are of Westeros.” 

“Men of Westeros enslaving one of their own.” There was a hard rage in his voice. “You are certain they are Westerosi.”

“Yes, Andal,” Arekor insisted. “The old one calls himself a knight.”

Jon turned to him. “A knight?”

Arekor nods. “That is all I know. That, and he has a daughter. It will be your duty to protect her.” Bloodsworne had been bought and sold for a thousand different reasons, and acting as bodyguard was not so unusual a feat. There were many kinds of slaves that had been trained in blade and shield, but the bloodsworne were the most fierce…as well as the most capable in the bed. Perhaps the Westerosi wanted more than just some sword to safeguard the life of his daughter. What man would not want a strong son, sired from someone blessed by the gods? Arekor could have told Jon that. Surely then he would find some comfort in what was about to happen. 

But for some reason, Arekor found himself silent. He knew what Jon wanted. The Andal made no secret of that. “You can still be free. The road is not as…clear as under the Master’s eye, but these Westerosi can free you whenever they please. The daughter could grow fond of you. She could grant you what you seek.” 

“I am not a deceitful man. I…” He crossed his arms across his chest, and Jon began to wander away from Arekor. “Tricking the girl is not something I can do.”

Arekor shook his head. “I spoke nothing of tricks. Love is not a trick.”

Jon turned to face him. Arekor thought that the Andal meant to say something. There was protest in his eyes, Arekor could see that plain enough. But the Andal said nothing, and a disturbing silence overtook them both. Madness took hold over him, and Arekor asked, “Did you know your mother?”

Jon blinked, and Arekor thought that he would lash out at him for breaching his rights. But the Andal only sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “No,” he said, “I never knew her. What of you?”

Arekor let out a broken breath. “Yes,” he said. “In a sense. I know she was beautiful. I remember her face. Strange that; the Master said I have been here since I was just a child, so I had to have been no more than just a babe when I sold. I should not remember her face, but I do.” Arekor would have imagined that Jon would lose all interest. Who would care for the mother that brought an abomination into the world? But there was no disrespect in the Andal’s eyes; only an urging for him to continue. “She was…” The right word to describe her escaped him. How could he make the Andal understand? “Beautiful. Her hair was like silver, softer than air, and her face… It was a face one could not forget. Her eyes were loving and kind.”

Arekor had spoken for too long, and he could feel all the saliva building up in his mouth. He forced it down in a brutish swallow. “But she must have seen me, seen what  _ she  _ had brought into the world. I cannot blame her for selling me.”

Jon was going to say something, but Arekor would not hear it. He was an Andal, he did not  _ understand  _ the way the wheel turned in Essos. “She was from Lys.” That silenced him. “Do you not see my hair?” His lips twisted into a smile as he swept his fingers through his mop of brittle gold. “I have the blood of Valyria in my veins. I know what compelled my mother to send me away.  _ Shame.  _ How could a woman so beautiful and perfect not feel betrayed that I was her son?”

He felt something prick at his eye.  _ Tears. I cannot cry. A man does not weep for what he never deserved. A bloodsworne would never show weakness.  _ “My mother would not love me. Could not, it was impossible. What mother could?” Arekor could not see what was in Jon’s eyes. Shame? Pity?  _ No Jon, you may not pity me. A monster still has his pride.  _ “But I thought…that I could find it in the arena.”

“Find what?”

“Love,” Arekor said. “Love. What else would you call it? I can sometimes almost hear them call out for me. So many voices crying out, so many that it would wash you away like a wave. And they are all saying my name.  _ Arekor, Arekor, Arekor.  _ I could be loved then. If I could just earn my brand and take to the sands…I would feel it.”

Jon stood there, shrouded in the dark of the night. His eyes were dark pools, and Arekor could not say he knew what lurked in the waters. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said, in a cold breath. “That’s not what they would give you. None of them would weep for you when you died. They’d just cheer for your murderer.”

Arekor felt something hot rise through his nostrils. “It’s not murder. Sacrifice for the Flayed Twins. They demand blood, holy blood, sanctioned deaths, and we give it to them.”

But the Andal was resolute. “It’s murder, Arekor. And you can’t find love in the arena. Not when you are killing just to appease a crowd. Love is…love is…” He looked down at his hands, seeking out an answer. “Gods, I don’t know! I’m not a poet. I don’t have the words. But the crowd will love you only as long as you keep on killing. The moment you stop giving them that, they will forget you.”

“And what of you?” The words came out in a snarl. “After tomorrow, will you remember the monster that lived in the Hrasher manse? The creature with a withered arm, and a glob for an eye?”

Jon sucked on his teeth, and turned from him.  _ You cannot lie to me, Jon. I know what—  _ “I would not remember a monster. I would remember Arekor of Lys, who wanted something more than what he was given.” He brushed past Arekor, and he could hear the dirt being crunched beneath Jon’s sandaled feet. “Farewell.”

 

**THE ALASHANT**

 

Marsoltor was on his knees. He had one candle to light in tribute to the gods; it was his humble offering to their greatness, and he prayed they would accept that. He was so low a man, a bug to be squashed beneath their splendor, he could not hope to be noticed by them. But he had to try. 

“Sceptered Lord, give the Master the wisdom he needs. That is all I ask of you. He is your faithful son. His name is Terzac, son of Hrasher, lord over men. Bless him.” 

He asked nothing in return. Not for himself. Not now, not ever, not since he was taken from the Abyss. 

Marsoltor rose to his feet. He felt the small pain in his chest, the dim reminder of his last days in the arena. It passed almost as quickly as it came, but the memory lingered. For a moment, he heard the crowd.  _ MARSOLTOR. MARSOLTOR. MARSOLTOR.  _ His name became an anthem, a devotion to the gods, to the city, to his master. In moments like that, Marsoltor had thought he was unstoppable. And why should he not? At that moment, he was the Titan of Astapor, the greatest of the bloodsworne, the gorey enactor of the divine will. 

That was all ended in an instant. Blade pierced his flesh, whip scourged his face, and he was done.

There was a small and courteous knock on his chamber door. “Come in, Tarim.” The boy stepped through. He was only one and ten, but the boy had proven himself a quick minded and dutiful servant. The Master did well in purchasing him from whatever mud heap he was born in. “What is it, child?”

“The Master sent me,” he said. “He would speak with you. At his pleasure.”

Marsoltor smiled. “Of course. Give me but a moment.” He wet his fingers, and pinched out the fire of the candle. He followed Tarim across the yards. There was a loud wind howling over them, and Marsoltor felt the dirt dance across his sandaled feet. Above them was the moon, silver and naked, and Marsoltor felt a lightness in the air. The worst of the house of Hrasher was behind it. 

It was. It must. They had been forced to kill their own -, to put to ground good men, men that deserved the right to die in the arena -, to sate the lusts of the Freeborn. It was a cruel reminder of the ways of the world. 

Marsoltor wondered if there ever was a time when masters traded cruel barbs with one anthe other, when all masters were respected, and given the dignity they deserved. It was a child’s fantasy. Alezek vo Hrasher wouldill learn his place. Marsoltor saw greatness in him, ever since he was a boy. 

When Marsoltor was bought, Alezek was but a boy, young and eager to learn, and even more eager to please his father. “Who are you?” he had asked one day. Marsoltor still had hair then, thick dreads that flowed past his shoulder. Marsoltor still remembered the weight on his shoulders, and he remembered the tone that Master Terzac had ordered for them to be cut. One example amongof many of Master’s wisdom. 

In those days, the Aallashant was a scared daughter of Lys named Avallara. Half of her face was a ruin, but the other side was a great beauty. Once. Avallara was willful, fierce, and gave more than what she was given. She earned her place as the Aallashant that trained Marsoltor. And as Alezek asked the question of his father’s newest slave, Avallara watched, and waited.

Marsoltor had not known what to say to the boy. If the wrong word got out to his father, then he his bones would be grounded to dust and his body fed to the pigs. Or so he had thought, before he knew the type of man that Terzac vo Hrasher was. “I am nothing,” he said. It was a phrase he knew well. Those three words had saved him a thousand times, from the moment he was captured off the shore of Naath. 

“No, you are not. You are clay.”

That was something that took Marsoltor back. He had expected the boy to nod, to affirm that Marsoltor was beneath his boots. But Alezek vo Hrahser showed Marsoltor just what type of house the Hrasher line was capable of. Alezek could have been something more than just another master of bloodsworne. He could have been something great. 

There were not many tragedies in this world, but Alezek vo Hrasher’s circumstances wasere one of them. He knew that Master Terzac was not pleased with his son’s ambitions, but Marsoltor had revelled in them. Secretly, he hoped for Alezek to have all the success heall the success that Alezek desired. More than any other of the masters, he deserved it. 

And those ambitions had put a blight on the house. No…not his ambitions. The fear of the Freeborn masters. The doubt that someone who trainedthat would raise bloodsworne could be their equal. Or even worse, their better. In Alezek, they saw a true threat. And they knew the best way to push him aside.  _ The weakness and strength of a master is the same. Their income. If no masters would commission the bloodsworne of Hrasher, then the house would fall.  _

Marsoltor felt the gentle breeze. A curtain was rippling in the soft wind. “I can go the rest of the way, Tarim. I am not so old that I forgot.”

“Master said that I—“

“I know what Master said. And this will not come back to haunt you, I promise. Go get some sleep.” Tarim hesitated for a moment, before he turned and made a quick pace down the pink halls. 

There was a heavier clatter that drew Marsoltor’s attention. He could recognize Arekor’s footfalls from anywhere. The man was a giant and monster both, with not a graceful bone in his body. The Andal had sought to train him, and he probably would have made some progress if not for being sold off to the Westerosi. 

Marsoltor turned the corner, and Arekor was there. He could see in the giant’s one good eye that he had received the orders from Master Terzac.  Marsoltor wondered how best to comfort the creature. He supposed a play atn ignorance would be as goodat best a start as any. “Where are you coming from?”

Arekor bowed his head. He was taller than Marsoltor by a head, but he was not intimidated by that. Arekor was nothing if not respectful.  “The Master summoned me.”

“Ah.” Marsoltor smiled at him, in the hope that it would appear courteous. “I understand. Know that it is for the best. You understand, do you not?”

“Yes, Alashant, I do.”

Marsoltor nodded at him. “Good. Now get some rest. Should be an eventful day tomorrow.” He crossed his hands behind his back, and he waited for the creature to walk past. Arekor had learned a hard lesson, but it was needed. He had sought far beyond his station, his means, his dignity. What awaited Arekor in the arena? The gods crafted him, in their wisdom and cruelty, as a twisted thing. Preserving him, as a servant, as the attendant to greatness, was all the dignity he could hope to achieve. 

Master Terzac was waiting for him in his chambers. His quill scratched at parchment. “Ah, Marsoltor.” He did not lift his head from his work. “Wait. This will be but a moment.”

Marsoltor said nothing. The Master was true to his word. He set his quill aside and rubbed at his eyes. He looked tired. “I should have known you would be prompt.”

“Have you ever known me to be less, Master?” 

If it was any other man, Master would have been displeased. But he just smiled. “I remember you as half a savage in the Abyss.”

“That was many years ago, Master. That man has died.”

Master narrowed his eyes. “And who is he that stands before me then?”

“A new man,” Marsoltor answered. “Forged from clay, made anew, into something greater.”

Master snorted. “That’s Alezek talking. Men are not clay. We are…metal. We bend into something more feasible, to serve a higher cause, but to transform into something else entire?” He shook his head. “No, I think not. Enough philosophy. The Westerosi are coming tomorrow for the Andal. I expect a bargain to be struck.” 

“Of course.”

“I will not be the one to strike that bargain. It will be Alezek.” 

That did surprise Marsoltor. Master had always taken the lead in such matters. When it came to dealing with the clients, negotiating appearances in the pits or trying to undermine the lesser competitors, that was all Terzac. “As you say.”

Master formed a fist under his chin. He had looked thinner as of late. Stress from all that has occurred, Marsoltor told himself. “I have been invited to a viewing of  _ The Valiance of Grazdan _ .”

“Paraszys sol Nierhols.”

Master smiled. “Training bloodsworne is not all that you know. Yes, Paraszys gave me an invitation, and I accepted.” He grunted. “Accepted. No choice otherwise. My family is in no condition to spit in the eye of one of the most influential men of the city. Even if he did order us to kill half of my interest.”

Men died because of Paraszys sol Nierhols and the Freeborn.  _ Would that they all had a single throat, so Master could crush them all at once.  _ “He is ready.”

“Is he?” Master raised an eyebrow. “You sound so certain. So much more so than I. What does that say about me, that slave has more faith in the son than the father?”

_ It means that I knew him as such since he was a boy. It means I gave him wisdom, what little and pitiful I could afford. It means you are still his father.  _ “When you pass from this world, Master, your house will pass to capable hands.”

“That did not answer my question, Marsoltor.” There was a softness in Master’s voice that most of the household would be unused to. Perhaps even Alezek. But not Marsoltor. “My son…his dreams will never die. They will fester.”

“He is stronger than you think, Master. But I do not believe you summoned me here today to counsel you on Alezek.”

“No, I did not.” Marsoltor watched as Master’s finger followed the grains of the desk. “Tell me of Yarkaz.”

That was queer. “What is there to say, Master? He is the Titan of Astapor. The greatest bloodsworne to fight within the arenas.”

Master entwined his fingers together. “I mean, how would he fare as Allashant? If I rewarded you with peace, could he fulfill his duties as Allashant of this house?”

For a moment, all sense fled from Marsoltor. “Peace?”

“Peace,” said the Master. “You have served me for far longer than of my other slaves, and far more faithfully, skillfully, and earnestly than all of them combined. There is more worth in a single of your digits than in most.”

“Yarkaz,” Marsoltor said quickly. “Avallara and—“

“Yarkaz is among the greatest of my bloodsworne, which speaks to how great my praise for you is. And Avallara is the reason  _ why  _ I brought you here. You deserve better than the fate she received.”

“Master, Avallara was the Alashant of your father, and was yours for a time. She made me into a titan. There was no greater honor than to train under her.”

“And she died. Murdered by her own devotion. A man should be rewarded for his service. That would be just. This is not a just world, but I can ensure you have earned your due. I mean to raise Yarkaz into Alashant, and for you to be a free man.”

Marsoltor did not what to say.

“Do you have nothing? No words of gratitude?”

“Gratitude, Master,” he said humbly. 

Master let out a heavy breath. “Then leave me. My throat itches. I will have some of my sweet wine.”

Marsoltor left. His footsteps were an echo. A freed man. That was what Master said he would become. No, not master, not for much longer. Terzac vo Hrasher, that was his name, what Marsoltor could call him. 

What was he? A child of Naath, fighter in the Abyss, bloodsworne, Titan, Alashant, free man. Those would be his titles. He was almost in his sixtieth year, and he had worn so many different mantles. Some would never leave the hovels they were born into, but Marsoltor had seen half of the world. 

Perhaps he could go home. What was home? Someplace in Naath, filled with people who did not know him? The people of the Peaceful Isle knew only tranquility, but Marsoltor had feasted on blood and battle. He had forgotten the gentle songs, had gorged on the bellows of steel. 

Marsoltor could not go back; it was dead and gone, taken by the shadows.  _ That man who lived with the butterflies is nothing but bones and dust.  _ All Marsoltor had was Astapor, but what was a man if he was not a slave or a master? A man with a purpose, or a man with power? He was nothing but dust on the wind. 

He would be a freed man. A thousand paths were open to them, but they would all lead to his end. An end without purpose, without meaning, without worth. 

Marsoltor walked down the halls, felt the chill breeze grace his back. He knew the halls of Hrasher, had walked them a thousand times. It was home. This place was his home; this house, these halls, the slaves, the gardens. They were all a part of him, just as much as the blood beneath his flesh and the breath of his lungs. 

And Master would have him leave it all behind.

A thousand paths laid before him.

But Marsoltor would lay still, if he had the choice, the will, to be preserved as he was. Forever. 

 

**BLOOD OF HER BLOOD**

 

It was a daring request, and Jhogo had to admit that made him hard. Irri’s smile was almost shy, and her cheeks took on a pretty pink hue. The girl had always stood on her own, even before she was handmaiden to the Khaleesi. Her gaze was so sharp that it could almost slice through flesh.. “I want to see you,” she said, almost softly, “and I want you to see me.”

“Is it because of last time?” he asked. “I didn’t think I was that hard on you. I didn’t mean for the bruises.” 

Jhogo felt her fingers begin to hook into his pants. “The Khaleesi said that was how Jon Snow took her. I’m tired of bending over for you, Jhogo.” Her smile was almost wicked. “You always said you loved my eyes. Were you lying, or are you just scared of something different?”

And that was the end of it. Jhogo had to be careful not to tear the seams of the dress as he lifted it over her head. The Astapori silks were far too soft, and Jhogo’s fingers were too harsh. He was Dothraki; he was not meant for soft linen and featherbeds. Neither was Irri, if he was honest. She was a daughter of the horse, and that meant there was harshness and brutal truth in her that would escape all of the milk men. But there was something about the soft dresses of Astapor that showcased all of Irri, and revealed none of it. It was madness. He would hate to giveher any reason to return to the painted vests of the Dothraki. Sure, some of the Dothaki had dressed in golden silks and linen, but they were poor imitations. The gifts from the Khaleesi were the true material. 

When their clothes were nothing but a messy pile strewn by the bedside, Irri crawled on the bed, and spread her legs. There was no stopping Jhogo after that. He was as hard as the mountains that surrounded the city, but he slipped into her. It was almost as if his cock was some sort of sword, and Irri’s cunt was the only sheath he would ever fit in. 

He found himself gripping the side of her with one hand, but his other reached for her breast. It was the Dothraki way to take the woman from behind. Easier and quicker, more efficient, but by all the false gods and the trails of the Great Stallion, what Irri was making him do was something else entirely. When she was on her back, Jhogo could see the fullness of her breasts, see how their hairs mingled at where they were joined. Her cunt was wrapped around his shaft, and Jhogo never saw how  _ perfect  _ of a fit it was from behind. 

And her eyes – they glistened whenever she said his name. Or when he would grunt out hers. It was not long before the only sounds they could make were grunts and gasps. Words were beyond them as the heat overtook them. “Getting fucked is no laughing matter,” Qaralo had said to him once. His brother always told him the best way to take a woman, but he didn’t know the half of it. 

Irri was right. There was something about the eyes that had to be seen when you were fucking. In the splinter of that moment, between the gasps and pleasure that washed over him, Jhogo wondered what else the Khaleesi would change about the Dothraki. It was one thing to teach them that they had been fucking all wrong. It was quite another to put an end to slavery. 

But that thought escaped him as he felt his seed rush out from him. Irri let out a gasp, Jhogo grunted, and he managed to somehow say her name before the sensation robbed him of all his sense. In a moment, in an eternity, he felt the last of him drip out into Irri’s cunt. And when he slipped out, he had almost toppled right on top of her. Irri had the good sense to tuck out of his way. 

His eyes were half dazed as he looked on her. Her flesh was shining from the sweat, and he loved watchinglooking at how her breasts rose up and down. Gods, he wanted to kiss them. Why hadn’t he ever kissed them before? They were small and round, a perfect fit in his hand. Jhogo managed the strength to take Irri by the face and pull her to him. The way she sucked on his lips sent a snake of pleasure slithering through his belly. 

“God,” he breathed, whispered, sighed. “We should do that again.” She smiled at that, large and bold. That was what Jhogo loved about thisat woman. Even when she was just a slave, Irri had never backed down, never hesitated. Jhogo thought if he rose far in the service of Khal Drogo, he would give Irri to him as a reward.  _ But the fact that she wants me is all the better.  _ He had spread his seed into a dozen women, all honors earned from battles fought and bled. None of them were as satisfying as when Irri took him.  __

Jhogo rolled onto his baeck, and cushioned his head against the pillowsthe pillows against his head. For a splinter in time, for all the eons of the world, Jhogo just breathed, felt the pounding in his chest. “The Khaleesi will not give up her dragon,” Irri said. “Dragons are power, it is known. And the Khaleesi will not give up power.”

“That will be known,” Jhogo said. He shifted his head to look at her. Her dark eyes were a soft blaze. “She will turn on the masters.”

“I thought so.” Jhogo did not doubt her. His Irri was a sly and sharp little thing. She didn’t need to be told what the Khaleesi had in store. The how of it escaped her, but a sharp mind can only go so far. “The Unsullied are a part of it.”

Jhogo closed his eyes. The feather pillows were so soft, he thought he was sinking into them. They would say that Jhogo drowned in feathers. “She’ll trade the dragon, and then use the Unsullied to steal it right back. Then fire, death, blood.”

“And Jon Snow,” Irri said.

Jhogo gave out a tired grunt. “Jon Snow, aye.” He shifted on the sheets. He had suddenly felt restless. He rolled onto his belly, hoping the new position would lull him to sleep. It didn’t. “I never would have thought he would be so important.” Jhogo could hear Irri turn to face him. “Those first few weeks, when we travelled from Pentos to Vaes Sashs…I thought so little of them.”

“Who?”

“Jon Snow and the Khaleesi.” He could feel the glare Irri was giving him. “Don’t give me that. You saw her at the wedding. That girl, whoever she was, is long dead. So weak and trembling. And then Jon Snow goes and…what’s the word?”

“Pledged his sword to her.”

“Yes, that’s it. Why would any man pledge a sword to a woman?” He had half expected Irri to give a sharp reply to that, but she was silent. Jhogo could hear the Astapori winds gather up sand outside their window. “But I thought to myself: that is the Khaleesi. And the Andal is dear to her.”

“You think they had done it before?”

Jhogo snorted. “No. If they had, Drogo would have known when he took her beneath the skies. Speaking of, why don’t  _ we  _ do it under the sky? That is the proper way of things.”

“Do you want sand in your ass when you plow into me? Astapor is not the Grass Sea, Jhogo.”

She had the right of it. “Suppose not. Would never get it out.” Jhogo twisted on his back. No matter what he did, he was never comfortable. “But I thought, no matter how weak Daenerys was, she was still the Khaleesi. And Jon Snow was close to her. So I had to get close to him.”

“So that’s it. I always wondered why you were so friendly with him, from even before he learned the tongue.”

Jhogo smiled. “He was a quick learner, though. Didn’t need to wait long for that. Or maybe No-Eyes was a good teacher. Perhaps both.” Jhogo scratched at his face. A small dark field had started to grow across his cheeks. It had been a long time since he brought a blade to his face.  _ Irri has smiled more since I grew lazy with shaving.  _ “Did you know?”

“Did I know what?”

“Jon and the Khaleesi. Did you have an idea?”

She shook her head. “None. Did you?”

Jhogo grunted. “Not at all. Those two are sly, I would give them that. Horned the Khal, and none of us were the wiser. If I knew then…I would have had to kill him.”

“Would you? Jon the Andal was your friend.”

“And Drogo was my khal,” Jhogo said fiercely. “That means something more than friendship. I raisedose my arakh for Khal Drogo. Daenerys belonged to the Khal, not to Jon Snow. He had not the right. It was a good thing that Drogo died before the Khalakka was born. If Drogo still drew breath, no matter how shallow or weak…his bloodriders would be honor bound to put an end to them.” A horrible image of the Khaleesi being torn apart by horses entered his mind. HeIt filled him with a shivered. 

“And now, Daenerys is your Khaleesi. You are the blood-of-her-blood. That means Jon Snow is your khal.”

Jhogo couldn’t help but laugh at that. “By the Stallion, they have risen far. A pair of Andals will lead a khalasar. Has that ever happened before?”

“How would I know?”

Jhogo rolled over. “I suppose not,” he said into the pillow. “She’ll need a new name for this place.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Jhogo said, “that when the Khaleesi rules from here, she cannot call it Astapor. That is a weak name, saved for the Harpies.”

“Is that what the Khaleesi intends? To conquer this city?”

“Of course she will.” Jhogo turned so he could face her. Irri’s head was lying on top of her arms, and she was stretched across the pillows. Her brown eyes were focused on him. “She won’t just leave this place. She wants to rule. Why not here? A new Vaes Sash. A better one, even. Khal Drogo never had  _ dragons _ . And he always had to worry about Vaes Dothrak and the Dosh Khaleen.”

Irri frowned. “She would not do that. The Khaleesi does not want to rule this city of sands. She wants to go to Raesh Andahli. Do you not listen to her?”

“Of course I do,” he said quickly. “But why would she cross the poison waterit? We know this land. We understand it. What is across the sea? The place where her family ruled? She can start a new empire, right here. How is that not better?”

“She wants the chair made of swords,” Irri said. “The chair that her father and his father sat in.”

“Why have a chair when you can have a horse? A man should rule from a saddle.”  _ But no khalasar was ever ruled by a khaleesi before.  _ There was so much uncertainty now. How can anyone know how the Khaleesi will rule? A Khaleesi had  _ never _ ruled before, itthat is known, and no khalasar has ever had dragons before. “Who knows what will happen?”

Irri twisted onto her back. She stared at the ceiling. “The past is written, the inky is dry.”

That did not sound like his Irri. “Where did you hear that?”

“From No-Eyes. I think,” she said after a moment. “The Andals write, don’t they? They put down what they know. But we Dothraki are not like that – we live from one day to the next, and discover what the next morning brings, and damn what happened yesterday. The Khaleesi is the same, I think.”

“She is not Dothraki.”

“No,” Irri said, “no, she is not.” She fell asleep soon after, and all Jhogo could do was what her do it. He turned and twisted beneath the covers, and half the time he was afraid he would awake Irri. But she slept like a bear that ate a horse, while Jhogo could only struggle and be envious. 

He found himself walking the halls soon after that, shrouded in a robe. The Khaleesi insisted that her bloodriders “accept the gifts that Kraznys mo Nakloz hasve bestowed upon us”. The Dothraki were no strangers to gifts, but they were always in exchange for something. “Don’t raid our cities, and we will give you chests full of gold.” That was the usual exchange. 

But Kraznys gave out his gifts without asking for anything. That felt wrong. It wa’s a good thing that Daenerys was Khaleesi, and that Jhogo was not Khal. If he’d had his way, he would have raised up arakh and whip and spear to liberate Jon Snow. He’d probably be dead for it too, but none would say that the khalasar was skulking in the shadows. 

When Jhogo gazed out the window, he could see the moon, full and silvery, shining in the dark sky. It was the only light Jhogo had in the dark halls of the pyramid.  _ Damn the shade. Let me fight under the sun’s glare.  _ Khal Drogo wanted to conspire and trick, and look what happened to him. He was devoured by lions. 

_ Can a lion devour a dragon?  _ Jhogo laughed at the thought. The dragon would probably find the lion’s gnashing of teeth an annoyance, and bathe him in flames for the trouble. 

Just around the corner, he heard a baby’s wail. He whispered the Khalakka’s name under his breath. As he turned down the hall, he saw Jhiqui holding the babe to her chest, a hand pattdding his back. She whispered words to him, hoping to soothe him. “Jhiqui?”

She turned. “Jhogo.” The woman was dressed in the night gowns of the Ghiscari masters. Back on the Grass Sea, she would not wear anything to bed. But this was Astapor, and in Astapor one wore thing white dresses to bed. He could almost see the curves of her leg beneath the thin fabric. Jhogo tried not to focus on that. “Bloodrider,” she added hastily. “Did the Khaleesi send for you?”

Jhogo shook his head. “Is she awake?”

“No,” she said. Almost as if in protest, the Khalakka let out a small cry. She whispered something into his ear, and his criese seemed abated. For thea moment. “She is asleep. I have been looking afterover the Khalakka. She is…weary, Jhogo.”

He gave a nod. Daenerys was the Mother of Dragons, but she was still a woman. Drogo was never weak, never frail, but he was just a man.  _ We must protect her, more than Drogo’s bloodriders ever did.  _ “She is a mother and a Khaleesi. It has been many moons since he was born. How is…is he…”

“He will live,” she said. “I think. The Khalakka is a baby. The Khaleesi says he survives because he is a  _ dragon _ , but I don’t know what that means. He looks nothing like…Agerion, the Khaleesi calls it. The black one.”

Jhogo knew their names. He was there when the Khaleesi decided on their names, and her reasons for doing so. The dragons were the reason why he bowed at her feet and swore himself to her, for that day and all days to come. The image would never leave his mind; not even after he had forgotten the face of his father, he would remember the day Daenerys Targaryen emerged from the inferno, with a babe sucking at her breast, and three hatched dragons clawing at her legs and arms. And the dragons were what kept up Jhogo up at many a night. The dragons were hell and fire beset upon the world. How could a woman return them? The Great Stallion must have had a great plan in store for the Khaleesi…and Jhogo shivered at just what that could have been.  _ Men were not made to think on such things.  _

“A khaleesi needs a khal,” Jhogo said. “It is known.”

Jhiqui allowed herself to smile. “It is known.” 

“If there is any reason why the Khaleesi is weary, that is it.” He crossed his arms across his chest. The Khaleesi was able to bear the weight of it all, on her own small shoulders. No other woman could have done that. Only the Mother of Dragons. “Did the Khaleesi speak of what happened in Ghis?”

Jhiqui was quiet. The Khalakka made more noise than she did. “No,” she said. “Why are you asking me? Why now?”

Jhogo licked his lips. The Astapori night was too cold for his liking. “She spoke none of it to her bloodriders. Not even Rakharo will speak of it. I thought that perhaps, with you being her handmaiden…”

“Is Irri not her handmaiden as well? Does she not go to your bed every night?”

He huffed at that. “Of course she does. It just came to mind. Does the Khaleesi not confide in any of you?”

“No.” The babe began to struggle at her chest. Jhiqui whispered some words and cooed into his ear, and that seemed to settle him. “She is very quiet, Jhiqui. She keeps too much to herself. I see her with No-Eyes the priest from time to time, but besides that…”

That was not right. Jhogo had half a mind to tell the Khaleesi that she  _ had  _ to find counsel with her bloodriders. He thought that because she was a kKhaleesi, perhaps she had been confused on that count and sought advice from Irri or Jhiqui. But with No-Eyes? The man was some priest from a Lhazareen temple. Drogo and Bharbo went to him for counsel, and look what happened to them. He was Jon Snow’s mentor and teacher, and now  _ he _ was a slave in the city. “She needs her khal. She needs Jon Snow.”

Jhiqui afforded herself a smile. “Once the Andal is rescued, she will be better. After tomorrow, the Khaleesi will know the right of it.”

_ Yes, she is so sullen only because of Jon Snow.  _ “Once he is rescued, the Khaleesi can focus on the other cities. Yunkai and Meereen will never expect us. Bloody and glory will come. The Great Stallion will be pleased.”

“I…I don’t think that is the Khaleesi’s intent, Jhogo.”

_ First Irri, now Jhiqui. Only the Mother of Dragons knows the right of it.  _ “You said so yourself; the Khaleesi does not confide in you. But she will be haveing an army by tomorrow. What use are spears and swords if not to conquer?”

“To protect, perhaps? She has to think of her son. A khaleesi is not a khal.”

Jhogo planted fists into his side. “She brought dragons back into the world. What was the point of that, if not to conquer? The Khaleesi said that her family had a phrase.  _ Fire and blood _ . That’s what she will give her khalasar. That’s what we deserve.”

 

**THE SEALORD**

 

They would be upon Astapor tomorrow.

The fleet was blessed with a good, strong wind. They had lingered for a few days after Talrios left, and Tormo had feared that would set all their plans to ruin. It would not be poor weather alone that would undo everything. The crusade had been planned for far too long, too many contingencies taken under consideration, for that to be the case. It was Talrios that worried him. His brother, his right hand, his Firrist Sword, the reckless, the bold eyed. 

It would be a lie to say he had no fear in his heart when Talriosormo and the Westeorosi had sailed off on the  _ Unbroken.  _ It was a strong and swift galley; the two hundred oars would give them good time. What would take several weeks for the fleet, a single vessel could accomplish in a few days. His First Sword would clear the way, set the warpath for the assault. 

But it was the uncertainty that gnawed at him. It had to be done, but Tormo had sent his brother into the claws of the harpy. Father had made him promise to protect Talriosormo, as the disease ripped all life from him. Toros Fregar was a boar of a man, with a face like iron and a booming voice that allowed no arguments. But it was his gaze that demanded the attention of whatever meeting of merchant lords that demanded his attendance. It almost broke Tormo to see his strong father to be so completely destroyed. “Do not fail me in this Tormoalrios,” Father had demanded, with the last slivther of his strength.

And if nothing else, Tormo had fulfilled his father’s final wish. The memory of Toros Fregar was eating away at him.  _ You say you kept Talrios safe. But you sent him into Astapor.  _

There was more at stake than just one Seal Lord’s promise to a dying father, but did he need to be so reckless? His brother was rubbing off on him, and Tormo did not care for that. What Talrios wanted, Talrios got. Have four children out of wedlock, all of them willful, stubborn and brilliant? He would have them. Train under the best braavo, learn the art of the Water Dancer, be lectured by those of the Iron Path? They were his. 

And when the First Sword was right, Tormo could not refuse him. Tormo had a dozen captains under his command -, experienced officers, braavos that had earned their reputations; anyll could have gone in Talrios’ place. And all of them would have failed. Only the First Sword could prepare the way.

The liberation of Slaver’s Bayt was more important than his brother. But his brother’s laughters and smiles meant the world to him. 

Astapor was ahead, but the Golden Company wasere behind. A week past, they noticed the sails on the horizon. The Volantene galleys tried to turn, but the sons of Braavos were known as masters of the sea for good reason. After a small skirmish, the three galleys were under their control. 

It only took a day for the Volantene sailors to say everything. The Golden Company had hired them – a whole fleet – to give passage to Astapor and beyond. The son of Rhaegar Targaryen was coming for his aunt, to wed and to bed, and to secure his dynasty. 

That, Tormo did not anticipate. When the Braavosi fleet had set sail, the Golden Company was still in Myr. Another war was brewing between the Three Whores, and the Archons of Myr had paid their weight in gold to secure the contract of the Golden Company. But no amount of gold could overwhelm the allure of home. 

Rhaegar Targaryen’s son would have an aunt for a wife. Tormo had to say he was not too surprised by that. No better way to seal a union, especially one with the purpose of taking back the Iron Throne. Father’s father had married his cousin, if Tormo remembered right. Or maybe not. The dead are dead, and that meant less than little to him. 

_ I will deal with the son of Rhaegar after Daenerys is safe. Or after we have avenged her.  _ It would better if Daenerys Targaryen still drew breath; it would be suitable if Jon Snow and their suckling babe always lived. The best situation would be if all were alive. But that was a dream for poets and playwrights. With Daenerys under his protection, Tormo will have the upper hand against the Golden Company. 

The Lord of Light was good to him. He had more than several weeks on the Golden Company. That was time enough to decide how to deal with Aegon Targaryen and his sellswords. After the city was taken. After the slaves were freed. After the masters were made to pay for their crimes. 

Despite all of his preparations, everything would be decided on the morrow.  _ We live or die by Astapor.  _ It should crumble. The Masters weare fat and weak, leeches that hadve grown succulent on the misery of others. It should be an easy victory. A predictable conquest.  _ Those that rely on predictions are gamblers, and I do not play dice.  _

But it was dice all the same, if Tormo had to be honest with himself. 

He found himself opening his chest, softly peeling away at the neatly stacked clothes. At the bottom was a simple container, stitched from a dark leather, and held by metal clasps. The violin it held within was one of the few treasures that Tormo afforded himself. It was the fractional size, the type that required that it be pinned between chin and shoulder for stability. One was never too far from the music. The wood hadwas a brilliant sheen, a dark red wood that glimmered in any sort of light, the strings fashioned from the fine mane of a coursier. 

Beyond all else, Tormo found comfort in this simple, yetand priceless instrument. He had wielded it with precision since he was a boy. His father was most insistent that his sons learn an instrument. “And not of the simple madness spewed off by the Westerosi. A real instrument, one that will teach you patience and precision.” Every day, Father would inspect his lessons, ensure that his son had met his instructions. If Tormo ever failed, he would receive no punishment save his Father’s disapproval…and that was far worse than anything else. 

He knew the violin like he knew himself. The chainguard was perfectly balanced, unless you would tilt it towards your right ear – then you would hear the slightest clink as the nails squeaked under the pressure. Tormo could close his eyes, and he would know the weight of the strings, how hardtough to press on them, or how light. He knew the music. 

Bow went to string, and music filled cabin. For just a few moments, Tormo forgot all else. Nothing else mattered but the tempo, the pitch, the bow gliding against the string in the right way, thehis delicate pressure asthat he held the neck. 

All the music fled from the cabin the moment Meero Syrese entered. He gave the steward a scathing look, his fingers frozen on the bow. “It is considered rude to barge into a man’s chambers, Meero.” He resumed at once, his fingers pressing the bow onto the strings.

Meero gave the comment no mind. He turned and motioned for the sailors to enter. The cart squeaked on the floor, and Tormo could smell the mutton even before they lifted the metal lid. Steam rolled off of the crimson meat, and set to the side was a potato, cut in half, with butter sliding off of it. “That is Boroch’s  _ Fantasia of the Sea _ .”

Tormo put the violin down. He tenderly nestled it into the caseontainer, and sealed it shut. “You have a good ear, Meero. If only you had manners to back it up.” He took his place at his desk, and the sailor stuffed a napkin down his neck. “The Lyseni arbor, I think.” The sailor gave an approving nod before reaching down into the caourt, revealing a bottle that was sweating from icy waters. A glass was produced, and, with considerable care, the wine was poured. “Just one glass. That will be all.” With a nod, the sailor rolled the cart out of the cabin, leaving Tormo with his steward. “What news?” He cut into the mutton, and the pink bled through. 

“Nothing eventful. You will be disappointed.”

“So, disappoint me.” Tormo ripped the slice of meat from the fork. 

“We are making good time. Only a few galleys are lingering behind. The  _ Red Sword _ , the  _ People’s Champion,  _ and the  _ Toros _ .”

That would not do. “Send a stern word to those vessels, but especially the  _ Toros _ . I will not have a ship named in my Father’s honor lag behind schedule.”

He jotted something down on parchment. “We also spread ourthe men across those three galleys we liberated from the Golden Company. The…ah, the  _ Kaijer Jolo _ , the  _ Ghezke Yukja _ and –”

“I won’t have Volantene names in my fleet. Give them something worthy.”

“Of course, Seal Lord. Any you had in mind?”

He washed down the potato with the Lyseni arbor. “I can leave that in your capable hands, Meero. The formalities can wait until after we have taken the city. War awaits us.”

“That it does. We still have the Golden Company in the hold of the  _ Fires of Valyria. _ ”

Tormo wiped the juices away from his mouth. “I still hold to what I said. I would not have them harmed. We don’t know when the Golden Company will come knocking, and I would rather not start off on a bad foot. If we do manage to retrieve Daenerys Targaryen, she will prove a valuable asset against her supposed nephew.”

Meero Syrese raised an eyebrow at that, and the scar on his cheek stretched. “Supposed? Hard to be supposed. Rhaegar conceived him on Daenerys’ goodsister.”

He sipped from the Lyseni arbor. “If he is Rhaegar’s son. Go to where this wine was distilled, and you will find plenty of boys with silver hair and lilac eyes. The Golden Company could have plucked hithem from such a vineyard.”

“Bold move,” the man admitted. “Risky. Very high risk. If that is what happened. No word from your brother, I am afraid.”

“Of course not. Talrios hates being reasonable. Is that all?”

“That is all.” Without another word, the steward tucked the papers under his arm and walked out the cabin, leaving Tormo alone with his meal, the Lyseni arbor, and histhe apprehension aboutfor the tomorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, I am alive. I live. What a plot twist. 
> 
> Now I want to come back and say that things will be back on schedule. A chapter every other week. No more absurd disappearances. An end to the radio silence. I want to say those things...but I really can't. The next two-hundred or so pages are the ones that will require the most revision in the entire arc and are still very much a work in progress. 
> 
> So I cannot promise anything except I will do my very best to get it out to you in the best condition I can manage it. And I cannot even promise that because this chapter I just got so frustrated with fine-tuning it that I decided to just say "Fuck it!" and release it. 
> 
> So I guess what I am promising is that I cannot promise anything! Well, except for one thing. The next few chapters will be worth the wait. The entire arc has been building up to this, and I do not think you will be disappointed.


	21. The Valiance of Grazdan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day at the opera, negotiations at a slaver's table, and the rattling at the gate to the seven hells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a long time coming. 
> 
> I know I have said previously I would strive to get my chapters out on a more regular basis. Obviously, I have failed in spectacular fashion, but I do not think I quite realized just how much of an undertaking it would be to beta and revise a 74 page chapter. It took my betas a long time to get through this chapter, and I worked in tangent to make this the best possible chapter it could be. 
> 
> On a second note, the link to my website, where you can read this chapter in concord with a selected soundtrack. 
> 
> https://wp.me/P7Obn3-5L
> 
> On a third note, a desperate plea from the author to read this chapter on said website. More than any other of my chapters, the music is key. I often wrote the chapter while the opera was playing on my computer. I wrote so many of the set pieces with this music in mind. This chapter is not just set in an opera house, but is my way of offering thanks to the world of orchestral music that has offered me so much inspiration in return. 
> 
> I would argue this chapter is made all the stronger by the soundtrack. You can choose to listen to it on AO3, without music. I would say you would experience a lesser thing if you did so. 
> 
> With that said, enjoy. No bets on when the next chapter is out. It's a doozy as well.

**XX**

**THE VALIANCE OF GRAZDAN**

 

**THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE**

 

Whenever Terzac had the dream, he prayed before the gods. It was never a cold sweat that welcomed him into the waking world, but the quickened beat of his heart. He could not remember her face, could not recall the sweetness of her voice, but always he would dream of her. _Sharea holds dominion over me, always._ The gods demanded a shrine that shone with  opals and diamonds, was lit with golden candlesticks, and was perfumed with incense. Terzac vo Hrasher had provided all these things.

The sun was just a small trickle of flame above the Worm when he made his way into the shrine. Their faces were carved into the wall – the Conciliator of Blades, Mother Harpy, the Frayed Twins and above them all rested the Sceptered Lord. “Give my son the strength to do what must be done,” he prayed. The small flame of the candle had cast the face of the Sceptered Lord under a copper glow. “And grant me the wisdom to commit him to it. Let him know his place, O Lord. Let my son be a better man than I was. Give him ambition, but also let him find satisfaction in the world you have created. Open his ears to you, O masters of earth and sky. And give me the words to make him understand.”

When Terzac finally rose, his knees were cramped, and there was a chill running across him. He brought a warm towel to his face, to wash the night sweat off of him.

He found Alezek breaking his fast over bean paste rolled in shortbread. It was covered in sliced fruit and spices. The sharp smell filled the air. “Hello, son.”

Alezek looked at him. “Morning, Father.” He ripped into the bread. Crumbs were scattered across the plate. “A bit late for you, isn’t it?”

 _Your mother visited me._ “I had business.” Galobra, an old slave from Pentosh, pulled out a chair. The moment he sat down, Helmor and Jielzer filled his plate with food and poured white wine from Lys into his glass. “Or, I was considering business, rather.”

Alezek had not torn himself from his meal. “Paraszys seemed rather pleased with his games yesterday.”

“I would hope so.” Terzac stirred his bread into the paste. The coarseness of the bread mingled with sharp taste of the beans. “He spent a great deal of money on them.”

“And no doubt wanted a great deal in exchange. That man gives nothing for free.” Alezek smiled. “And how did he like our slaves?”

“Well.”

“Well enough to invite you to the opera.”

Terzac was about to reach for his glass. “I would hope so. The Andal gave off one hell of a show.”

“They all did,” Alezek said.

Terzac nodded. “Of course. The Andal gave them good instructions. He has the making of a Titan.”

“If we weren’t about to sell him off.”

 Terzac knew then that now was not the time for wine. He pushed the glass aside. “You have reservations. Make them known.”

Alezek wiped at his mouth. “We spent a not insubstantial amount of time preparing Jon for the Pits. Time and money. Food. Equipment, sweat and labor. The Bloodsworne are an investment, not a product that is just sold away.”

“We have sold Bloodsworne before. And if there is a moment for us to sell off Jon the Andal, now is it. Every son and daughter of Astapor knows the name of the Black Hound. He would raise  a good price, and these Westerosi may flinch, but they cannot object.”

“So a small prize now, instead of a fortune flowing over the course of Jon’s life?”

Terzac shook his head. “Jon the Andal could die tomorrow, or years from now. No Bloodsworne has ever died in their bed. This is a guaranteed profit today, instead of a dream that could not bear fruit. And these Westerosi want to buy Jon from us today. They earned the favor of Illyrio Mopatis.”

His son frowned at that. “But why a Bloodsworne?”

“That is not unusual.”

“No,” Alezek admitted. “But it is still queer. Bloodbeard wants him too.”

“Yes, and there is no secret why. There is bad blood between those two.”

“Father, you know what will happen if we sell Jon off to the mercenary.”

“Nor can I ignore him when he managed to worm his way into Paraszys’ good graces. That scoundrel managed to evade the fury of Daenerys Targaryen somehow, even though he boasted that he murdered her. I don’t like mercenaries, and lying mercenaries even less so, but he offered a sizable advance. If word gets out that we ignored that…”

Alezek frowned. “Reputation tarnished, I know.” His fingers tapped along the woodwork of the table. He was becoming agitated; Alezek always played with his fingers when his patience was running thin. “Normally I do not mind a bit of manipulation, but I do not like the idea of Bloodbeard arriving while I am busy with the Westerosi. That could spell calamity, if not today than surely tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” Terzac said, “but there is a thing called pride. Paraszys’ pet captain wants to bargain with us? Fine. He can have the Westerosi’s sloppy seconds. I am leaving the discretion in your hands,”

Alezek was still. He looked at Terzac for a moment, his brown eyes wide. “You—“

“Have never let you negotiate before? I know.” Terzac sipped from his wine. “I think it is time to change that. You have good intuition Alezek, and although I disapprove of your ambitions, I cannot ignore what is in front of me. You will handle the negotiations for Jon. I will trust your judgement.”

Alezek looked as if he was struck. “All of it? No questions?”

“Not likely.” Terzac let out a humph. “And gods help you if you turn away both the Westerosi and this Bloodbeard just on account of spite. If there is a good offer to be had, you _will_ render a contract.”

“Of course,” he nodded. “I will see it done.”

Terzac smiled. “Good. So while you are conducting that business, I will be with company.”

His son chewed on his lip. “So you are going to the opera house.”

“ _The Valiance of Grazdan_.” He licked his lips. “It’s a classic. One of the few operas that we permit within this city.”

Alezek frowned as he leaned back into his seat. “I know that. Why perform anything less than the best? What else can compare?”

“What else indeed?” Terzac pushed his plate away, and Galabro quickly withdrew it from the table. Jielzer offered to refill the wine in his glass, but Terzac waved her off. “You partake in business, while I witness a masterpiece. Salyena of Lys is heralded as one of the greatest voices in all the world. I’ve heard that she has toured in Volantis, as well as Braavos.”

“Braavos,” Alezek said with disdain. “A city of money grubbers and drinkers of swamp water. Just what do you intend to do at this performance? Kiss Paraszys’ ass?”

“Watch your words.” Terzac leaned forward in his seat. His eyes were fixed on Alezek. “Paraszys is no friend of ours. I will never think otherwise. But the Master of the House of Nierhols has his hands in every purse in Astapor. Everyone knows Paraszys sol Nierhols, and he knows everyone.” He smirked. “I’m surprised you don’t know that.” His son’s frown was all the satisfaction that Terzac needed. “I cannot ignore this invitation. So yes, I am going to kiss ass. If it keeps our head above water, I’ll make my tongue brown.”

Alezek sucked on his lips. Beyond the windows, Terzac could see the rays of the morning sun gleam across the curtains. “What about our pride?”

“Pride gets a man killed when he forgets himself. A lesson you need to learn.” Terzac rose from his seat. “Finish your meal. I need to get ready to dance with a devil, and you have guests to prepare for.”

 

**THE WOLFGUARD**

 

The newly elected captain of the Second Sons was a man named Brown Ben Plumm, and Jory did not like the look of him one bit. After the death of Mero at the hands of Prendahl na Ghezn, the Second Sons were in need of a new captain. And for whatever reason, out of the five-hundred men of the company, only four objected to the man. That stunk to the high heavens and to the deepest pits of all the Seven Hells as far as Jory was concerned. “How much did this Ben Plumm bribe the other four-hundred and ninety-six men of the Second Sons?”

“As much as needed,” Talrios Fregar had said with a shrug. “I know what you are about to say next. _I don’t trust him._ It’s written all over your face. So predictable, you Westerosi. For what it is worth, I am in agreement. But we don’t need to trust him.”

Harwin had scoffed at that. “We will be going into battle with the man. What is a man without honor?”

“A man that wants a purse,” Talrios replied. “They only got half of what they were promised. And trust _me_ when I say, that half will make all the difference in the world.”

The only men in the room that Jory trusted were Alyn and Harwyn. The rest were determined by how far he could throw them. “It didn’t make a difference to Prendahl na Ghezn.”

“Prendahl na Ghezn had principles. Brown Ben is a rogue. And the sweetest thing to a rogue is the rubbing of golden coins.”

“And easy pay,” Harwin mumbled, “which is not what you are offering.”

The Braavosi nodded at that. “Tis true. But even rogues must take risks every now and then. Do not trust the new captain of the Second Sons, but you can expect him to do his job.”

The commander of the Second Sons came in a short time later, dressed in a silk vest and trousers tucked into ankle high boots that gleamed as bright as fresh snow. He and Talrios Fregar exchanged pleasantries so smoothly that one could be forgiven for mistaking the sound for two gold coins fucking. And of course there was the Tattered Prince, who lingered in the background like a spectre dressed in motley.

But as Jory watched Brown Ben unroll the parchment across the table, all he could think of was the task at hand. “This,” the sellsword said, “is a design of the Auditorium. All of its secrets have been laid bare, my friends.” Brown Ben fit the image of his name. His hair was gray and ashen, while a salt-and-pepper beard hugged at his face. His broad nose had been broken on more than one occasion, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled whenever he smiled. Which was constantly, and that amused Jory Cassel not at all.

“Tell me,” Daario Naharis said, his arakhs with the hilts of women golden and nude at his side, “which would you hear? News fortunate or ill?”

“Fortune goes with the bold,” answered Talrios Fregar.

The eyes of the Stormcrow captain gleamed in a smile. “We will have all day to do what needs to be done. And we have plenty of avenues to do it. Here,” he tapped once, twice, and a third time, “here, and here, are central pillars that keep the Auditorium standing. Break them down, and the entire thing collapses.”

“Crushing everyone in it,” Harwin said. “Including us.”

Daario Naharis smiled. “That is not the ill news. See here and here?” He pointed a sharp finger at several points on the document. “Side entrance ways. And look how conveniently close they are to these supporting pillars. We do what needs to be done, and we just slip right out. Well, after settling a bit of business.”

Jory liked that not at all. “That being?”

“Making sure they cannot escape,” answered the Windblown commander. Jory looked to the Tattered Prince, and his eyes gave not a hint of displeasure or amusement. “Once they hear the rumbles of the walls, and the roar of the fire, they will naturally want to run.”

“Those who are not too fat,” smiled Talrios Fregar.

“Quite so,” the Prince agreed. “We must block the doors to the performance chambers. There are two; here and here.”

Alyn bit at his lip. “Three parties for the pillars, two for the doors, and without a doubt two more to ensure that none meet any resistance when they escape through the side passages. That is a great many being split up into many small bands.”

“Not three pillars,” Jory said. “Just two. Three can hold the weight of the building, but just one will collapse beneath it. We’ll be stretched thin…but not too thin.”

Talrios smiled. “And here I thought the sun made all you Westerosi brain addled fools.” He looked at the design. “Four parties inside the Auditorium.”

“And men outside to ensure none escape.” The Tattered Prince spoke without reservation. “We do not want to go through all this to see a few escape the fires.”

Jory sucked on his lips. “So, where is the hard part in all this?”

The mercenary captains shared a glance with Talrios Fregar. “I recall you saying you spoke Valyrian.”

Jory liked that not one bit. “Yes.”

“We need a man on the inside,” Talrios said. “The side passages won’t be open from outside the Auditorium.”

“And you want me to do it?”

“Not just open,” Daario Naharis said. “Unlock. Those doors are meant for massive props to be brought in for the performances. These masters of Astapor love their extravagance, you understand.”

Jory didn’t understand anything about Astapor. “What does me speaking Valyrian have to do with that? And why _me_?”

“Why not you?” asked the Tattered Prince in a smooth voice. “Do you not want to see the masters burn?”

Harwin shook his head. “You have men under your command. Jory does not need to go into the harpy’s nest.”

“Those men are mercenaries. Maybe you Westerosi are bound by honor, but most men are not so hobbled. They want to be paid, and they want to live long enough to use that money. I send them in to do this, and they will spit in my face.”

“And elect a new captain.” Daario Naharis folded his arms across his chest. His blue eyes had a serious glare in them. “Or kill us. They follow us only so long as it serves their best interest, Andal.”

In that moment, he did not see men of Essos. He saw ghouls. They had been played, right into the trap. “We are expendable. I die, nothing changes.”

“That’s the truth of it.” Talrios strained to smile. “They have to command their men. What is a Sealord without his First Sword? While you –“

“Have no worth, except to get Jon Snow, and through him, Daenerys Targaryen on your side. And even then, you probably have other avenues. Finding us was not what sparked your brother’s ambitions.”

“No,” Talrios said, “it was not. You made things more interesting, to be certain. But we cannot force this on you. The siege of Astapor will be much more difficult should the masters live this day. These weeks spent plotting will be all for nothing.”

_And you would not let us leave this room. We could go find Daenerys Targaryen on our own. Everyone knows she will be putting an end to her exchange with the masters today. Not like she had hidden her presence. But you won’t give us the chance to turn her against you._

“Damn you, Talrios Fregar. We’ll do it. We’ll open the bloody gates.”

“Good,” he said. “I never said we were friends, Jory Cassel. Allies against the slavers, that was all. If it is any comfort, there is saying among us braavo. To death we say, not today. Think on that as you mingle with the harpies.”

 

**THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE**

 

By the time the litter was prepared, Terzac found Alezek out in the yard to meet him. “The Westerosi should be here soon,” his son said. He was looking beyond the gate in anticipation. “And by then you will be at the Auditorium?”

“Mingling,” Terzac said, “feasting off of grapes and sweet bread. Waiting without rest for the performance to begin.”

Alezek smiled. “You almost sound excited.”

“Perhaps I am. _The Valiance of Grazdan_ is one of the greatest displays of art in the world. Should I not be excited?”

“Father, you are a Blooded Master, through and through. The only thing that makes you excited is the sight of men dying in the Pits. This opera is something you have to do.”

“As is you dealing with the Westerosi.” The slaves laid the litter just an arms length away. A hot and dry breeze whipped past him. He took a step inside the litter, and felt his heartbeat quicken. He gripped at his chest and licked his lips. He forced a few steady breaths. Alezek stepped closer, concern written clearly on his face. “I’m fine,” Terzac said. “It’s the heat.” He leaned amongst the cushions and feather pillows. The shade from the litter was already a relief. “Alezek,” he said leaning out the window, “you will do well.”

His son smiled, that grin that reeked of equal parts pride and resolve. “I won’t disappoint.”

 _You have never been a disappointment._ Terzac thought to say something, some words of support, but then the slaves lifted the litter off from the earth, and the opportunity was lost. The iron gates opened, and they were away.

The journey through the streets was a slow and steady process. Some other masters would whip their slaves to hasten the pace, but Terzac knew that was a waste. No better way to kill off your slaves than to make them work harder than the gods designed them for.

Besides, it gave Terzac time to look upon the city. _Astapor made our family._ That’s what Father would say to him. Those moments, when Father would instill in him the duty he had to his name and the city, would arrive in a flash. Every time Father spoke, it was with care. _I was too loose with my tongue. That is why Alezek is as he is. I couldn’t teach him as Father did me._

They took the street that was built along the River Worm. The clear waters washed against the copper shore, and Terzac could see the sun leave a golden trail across the rippling surface. Terzac closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could smell the wet clay, hear the waters wash over the grass and slimy ground. Small islands dotted the river, and palm trees stretched over all of them. Beneath their shade Terzac could make out figures, their clothes discarded and their figures naked. Many of them were slaves, no doubt. The wisest and kindest masters would allow their more prominent slaves a few hours everyday to rest and regain their strength. Many were conceived beneath the leaves of those trees.

Did he and Sharea make Alezek under such a tree? The girl had no reason to have pride, but she would roll her eyes at all of Terzac’s jests. Slaves should know no pride, only duty, but Sharea had more than one thing to say about that.

Terzac felt a ringing in his ear, and a dizzy spell came over him. “Faster,” he said hoarsely. A small cough came over him. “I would be at the Auditorium within the hour.”

It was not long before Terzac saw the gate posts of the Skyward Court. If he squinted, he would have been able to see the curved dome of the Circle rise in the distance. For years uncounted, the masters elected to the Circle had ruled from that place, voting on laws, legislation and trading treaties. Thousands of years before the Valyrians conquered the Sunset Savages, Hezark the Second and his thirteen sons saw to its construction. And beyond that, Terzac could see the Auditorium reaching upwards.

The entirety of Astapor was carved from the red clay of the Worm, but the Skyward Court had managed to keep its streets pristine. The Lower and Higher Courts that preceded it were covered in a soft, pink layer of dust, but the Skyward streets shone. Fountains could be found everywhere in the city, but only in the Skyward Court would the features of the fountain be preserved for the ages. The gentle sound of trickling water could be heard everywhere.

The Skyward Court was Astapor as its founders had always wanted it to be - the shining capitol of the new Ghis. The years would show that dream to be a farce. Meereen and Yunkai were closer to the Free Cities, with a wider abundance of slaves to market. More of the Worm flowed into Meereen, allowing the city to expand and flourish. Astapor had its Unsullied, but not enough came to purchase them. The price was too steep, and their application  too limited, too specific. Each transaction allowed gold to flow into the city, and for a time Astapor would shine, but only that. The Unsullied allowed Astapor to live, but never to thrive.

The Blood Pits helped, to a degree. Terzac could never put into words the  honor he felt at how his Bloodsworne would draw travelers to Astapor. But the Great Games were always few and far between, and in the meanwhile the Bloodsworne were restless, unused and abandoned.

Just as Terzac felt an ache creep through his leg, he saw the Auditorium. His father was just a boy when it was constructed. Some architect from Volantis was commissioned by a party of masters to oversee its construction. It was two-storied, with hundreds of faces carved into its walls. Harpies, heroes and villains, monsters and demons emerged from the stone. And, of course, dragons - demonic hell beasts spewing forth flame and death. Ferocious things to be sure, but small when compared to the majestic wings of the harpies.

As it should be. Valyria was a realm for ghosts and ash, while the sons of Ghis marched onward. The last daughter of Valyria came to Astapor a beggar. Could the will of the gods be any clearer?

Two massive harpies, hammered from iron and bronze, stood triumphant at the entrance way. Their wings were black and sharp, while their claws met to hold up a massive torch. In the dark of night, it would be a blinding sight. But as Terzac took careful steps out of the litter, the flame of the torch blended in with the midday sun.

Terzac took his first step onto the ground, and straightened his tokar around his arm. It was blue, with golden linings and trailing with beads. Not too bold, but grandiose enough. He was not a master with blood of the freeborn, but he was a proud man of a mighty house all the same. _Paraszys shamed me enough. A man has pride._

He had taken no more than a step after instructing the slaves to carry the litter off to the side when he heard the familiar voice of Astrazys. “Terzac. Terzac!” He turned, and saw Astrazys mo Nakloz atop his donkey, two slaves fanning him. “I never thought to see you arrive before me.”

Terzac smiled. “Donkeys are slow.”

Astrazys descended from the ass, and snapped orders at the slaves. They gave silent bows, muttered  unnecessary apologies, and were soon out of sight. “It has been a thrilling week. But a week filled with games can be nothing less.”

“I agree. Especially if it is profitable.”

Astrazys did not hold back his laugh. They slowly made their way towards the Auditorium. Already, Terzac could see a small crowd slowly ascending the steps. A low murmur was rising. “I would imagine nothing less. Not after how your Hound performed in Nierhols’ Pit.”

“He proved himself worthy of being Bloodsworne, as well as showed the value in bringing slaves from outside Astapor.”

Astrazys frowned. “Terzac, don’t. I had to join in the vote. Politics, you have to understand. The nail will be sent into the wood by the hammer, and I would much rather be the hammer. It will be only for a short time, while the violent urges pass.”

He forced himself to smile. “I understand that. But you must surely understand _my_ frustration.”

“Of course I do,” Astrazys said. “You made your feelings on the matter _quite_ plain to me. That was the day that I first saw the Hound at work. Now I hear you will sell him off?”

They had begun to climb the steps. The coolness of the Auditorium would be a relief from the heat. He could feel a quickened beat in his chest. “This Arristan has given a good offer. My son will hear him out, as well as Bloodbeard.” He spoke the name in little more than a mumble, just loud enough for Astrazys to hear and no other.

“How did he get into Paraszys’ good graces, I wonder? I know you must hate it, dealing with a mongrel as vile as him.”

 _You could not possibly know._ “My son will do right,” he smiled politely. “Perhaps Jon the Andal will not be sold off at all. He may still be a feature in the games.”

“I would not be disappointed at such. He was marvelous the other day. A truly ferocious beast. He does your family credit.”

“A man earns his worth in the arena. Marsoltor’s teachings can only push my Bloodsworne so far. Jon the Andal has earned his place.”

There was a disappointed look in Astrazys’ eyes. “I still would have paid well to see him fight again. If your son is not content with either offer, I could offer sponsorship.”

“Truly?”

“Truly. I know these things are not free, Terzac. If it would keep the Black Hound in Astapor, I would not mind.”

That gave Terzac pause. In all the years that he had known Astrazys, from when he was the pride of his father Eanazys’ eyes, Astrazys had never suggested sponsoring one of Terzac’s. “Well then, if the Andal should still be under my care…”

“I will look forward to the possibility. But tonight we have an opera to witness. Let us save talk of business for tomorrow.” His steps came to a stop. “Terzac,” he said gravely, “Paraszys.”

Terzac saw him. Paraszys sol Nierhols was dressed in a white and gold tokar, with glass beads hanging from the fringes. His red and black hair curled from his head in small, rippling waves. “We cannot avoid him,” Terzac said.

“I can think of a reason; for you to save face.”

“No,” Terzac said. “A harpy does not hide from his enemies. Let us get this over with.”

“As you say.”

Terzac could not deny the fear, hesitation and revulsion in his heart. Fear of seeing the man that brought shame and humiliation upon Terzac vo Hrasher in his father’s house. Hesitation from Terzac vo Hrasher wanting to be anywhere but sharing the same air as Paraszys. And revulsion that such a creature called Paraszys sol Nierhols lived, and that such a creature was born to a higher status than his son, whose wit and charm and intellect deserved much more.

 _And despite everything, we have profited much from each other._ Paraszys turned and faced him. “Astrazys.” His smile was wide, stretched out as how a she-devil would grin with glee at prey. “And Terzac vo Hrasher. I had not expected either of you.”

Astrazys, son of Eanazys, took Paraszys’ hand in a firm grip. “How so? I could not miss a performance of _The Valiance of Grazdan_ , one of the greatest operas dedicated to one of our greatest heroes?.”

“Your brother,” Paraszys said. His thin lips were like foul blood worms that had yet to feast on corpses. “Daenerys Targaryen shall travel to the Plaza of Punishment in just a few hours, to purchase her Unsullied. Most of the Freeborn Masters shall be there, to witness the dragon being traded for spears. I can only wonder how disappointed Saleyna shall be, to see how much of her audience has been stolen by Daenerys Targaryen.”

Astrazys gave a shrug. “Before I am a dead man, I shall see the black dragon a hundred times. But how many times shall I witness Saleyna of Lys?”

“Never again,” Paraszys said. “Well, I can understand why a Blooded Master would choose an opera performance over what will go on in the Plaza.”

Terzac heard the soft taps of a cane on the carpeted ground. With a tilt of his head, Terzac saw the silvery-golden hair of Ashokar Nyathar. “I can understand Master Terzac’s choice.” There was a thickness to his robe that did not fit the heat of Astapor, and there was a thin sheet of sweat. “A dragon is a great wonder of the world, but the black beast shall forever remain within Astapor. All shall come, day and night, to behold it. But Saleyna of Lys shall not remain here for a day longer. After the performance, her time here is done. Beholding her is time well spent, I would say.”

Paraszys smirked. “Yes, I suppose it is time well spent. But I have my own reasons…ah!” He raised his hand and waved. Terzac tilted his head and saw a couple make their approach. A man and a woman, both wrapped two tokar of identical white and pale green. The woman was pregnant, the folds of her tokar stretched tight against her growing belly. Terzac would give her only a few more moons. “You stand before my beloved niece, Tezana and her husband, Grazdan kul Tarkordos.”

Praszys bent to allow his beloved niece to kiss him on the cheek. “Honored uncle,” she said sweetly. “Forgive me, if I have delayed you at all. It can be hard to keep pace, when you are debating with someone that shares your heart.”

“We understand,” Terzac said. “A growing child has a will of its own. May Mother Harpy watch over you and yours.” How many times had he sung the Harpy’s Prayer over Sharea as she slept? Times beyond counting, without a doubt.

“I thank you, Master…oh!” Her eyes went wide, and she broke out in a smile. “I recognize your face. You are the esteemed Terzac vo Hrasher.”

Terzac chuckled. “It has been a long time since I have been called esteemed.” He allowed himself a small smirk towards Paraszys. “Many families choose to forget how important the Bloodsworne are to this city.”

“Not mine.” She gave a small shake of her head, and ger jeweled necklace rang out like a hundred small bells. “The house of Nierhols has been a great sponsor of the games. It was a thrill to see your Titan at work.”

“It was a concession,” her husband said. “She could see the Titan of Astapor, or Daenerys Targaryen hand over her dragon. I could not allow both.”

Tezana softly jabbed her husband with her elbow. “Not a concession. A bargain.”

Astrazys cleared his throat. “Well, let me give not a bargain, but a suggestion. It won’t be much longer before the opera begins, and I would not want to miss the overture.”

 

**THE CLOAKED WOLF**

Ser Barristan was armored in a robe of silk. The chiton hung loosely around his shoulder, and Sansa could see the full length of his muscular arm. Groleo thought to dress him up with rings set with stones on each of his fingers, but Barristan was persistent in his refusals. “I am a knight, ser, not a flowery maiden. Pardons to yourself, my Lady.” At that, Captain Groleo pointed out that Barristan Selmy was not a knight, but Arristan the exile, who had earned the favor of Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos, would have some luxuries. It was only when Sansa said, “You are meeting with a master of Astapor, and he would be offended if you came to him with no luxuries. A single ring, Ser, that would do.” Ser Barristan relented to that. A single ring set with a dark stone was fitted tightly around the middle finger of his right hand.

Sansa allowed herself to be more extravagant. “Know I do not mean to insult,” said Captain Groleo as one of his servants hefted a trunk into her cabin, “but Master Hrasher will not expect you to speak. Only to look pretty while he negotiates with your father.”

“Minisha would not know what to say to a master of Astapor. She would be polite and courteous.”

The Captain smiled. “Just so. And as such, you should have more jewelry than your exiled father. Minisha would have a fine collection of necklaces and pearl earrings. Am I  wrong?” From the trunk, he pulled out a velvet box. When he opened it, he revealed, among many other displays of luxury, a pair of small earrings fashioned from  pearls.

“You are not, Captain.” She managed to fit one of the earrings into her right ear. “Minisha must have the appearance of a lady of comfort, whom her kind father would see defended for all her days.”

“Only for a little while,” the Captain reminded her. “Then your brother will be safe.”

_From the man that has placed him in chains. But what comes after? He will not leave without Daenerys._

Captain Groleo said he had little girls, and Sansa believed him. As he ordered the servants to dress up Ser Barristan and herself, Sansa saw a twitch of a smile. He knew more about the folds of robes and jeweled treasures than Sansa would have  thought for a captain of the seas. Mother would still have more than a few words for him, though.

But Sansa had to say that she _enjoyed_ it. The thousand considerations of what to wear, and to project herself in what adorned her, reminded her so much of Winterfell. Mother would be there, saying “Sansa, wear the white dress today,” or “Sansa, make sure Arya has the silver chain around her wrist today. She needs something to remind Lord Glover that his liege lord has two daughters.” Every piece of jewelry, perfume, dress and accessory sent a message.

Their fast was broken over shrimp bisque, simmered in a broth so orange that Sansa thought it was made from pumpkins. Mint leaves floated at the top. “A cold meal,” the Captain said as he sipped from his spoon. “Something to help keep you from falling over in this heat. Don’t spill it on your clothes. Leaves a horrible stain.”

Ser Barristan was hesitant to try the dish, but after a few sips he found it agreeable. “Are you speaking from experience, Captain Groleo?”

“My wife,” the Captain answered with a large slurp. “Have you seen a women shriek when a daughter ruins her new blouse? I have, and it is not an enviable sight.”

When they had finished, the litter given by courtesy of Terzac vo Hrasher was awaiting them. “Master Hrasher is awaiting your pleasure,” said a slave with a shaved head and a gleaming bronze collar wrapped around his neck.

Captain Groleo went with them, his beard oiled and curled. “Illyrio Mopatis sent you with his blessings,” he said. “And I represent the Magister.” Ser Barristan could not think of a refusal, and Sansa thought that wise. It would be awkward if the Captain was not with them – the Master would start to ask questions, and that could lead to the lie being uncovered. 

It took longer than Sansa would have wanted to reach the Hrasher estate, but not as long as she had feared. Astapor was a maze of pink stones and blistering heat. She could see the waves of the summer heat in the air. The litter provided some shade, but that proved a poor defense against the heat. Sweat trickled behind her ear, and gave her an itch. She was half tempted to give it a scratch, if it weren’t for the foundation she had labored over.

Ser Barristan sat bowlegged against the cushions. He looked none too pleased. “Ser,” she said, “are you unwell?”

He frowned. “A knight should not be carried on the backs of slaves.”

“Remember what you are, Ser.” Captain Groleo had cushioned his head among the pillows, and his eyes were hazily closed. “An exile, not a knight.”

“An exile,” he said, “not a knight.” He looked out the window. “For only a day more.”

When they came upon the Hrasher estate, Sansa had to say she was surprised. She had half-expected it to be a massive pyramid, towering over the temples and winesinks in the High Court. But then she remembered hearing  that the blooded houses were not as affluent as the freeborn. When she saw the red walls and the tiled roofs of the manse, Sansa thought it was a poor comparison to Illyrio Mopatis’ manor.

_They are neither beggars nor magisters, these men who have enslaved Jon. But they will have their pride. In the shadow of the pyramids, what else would they have?_

Guards armoured only in silk opened the iron gate. The bars were bent into shapes that Sansa almost wanted to say looked like letters, curved and sweeping into each other. One symbol led to another  and on and on they went until, at the end, it was all a massive shape of symbols and letters. She could not read a word of it, but Sansa thought it strangely beautiful.

She did  not see Terzac vo Hrasher waiting for them near the bubbling waters of a fountain. Sansa recognized his son, Alezek, dressed in loose wisps of bright cloth. His right breast and arm were exposed, but the rest of him was wrapped in a robe. Silver chains hung from his bare arm, and they all jingled at his approach.

He gave Ser Barristan a warm smile. “Arristan Whitebeard.” He took the knight’s hands into his own, a display much warmer than Sansa had anticipated for a man of business. “Welcome to my father’s home.”

To his credit, Barristan did not crush Alezek vo Hrasher’s hand. “I am welcomed.” His Valyrian was rough, but suitable.  “Is your father well? I had expected him to greet us.”

“He attends the performance of _The Valiance of Grazdan_.”

“I apologize. The play is not known to me.”

Alezek vo Hrasher placed a hand over his heart, in an exaggerated display of shock. “I am appalled, Arristan. _The Valiance of Grazdan_ is one of the four great operas, the only performances that have any merit upon stages of repute. A tragedy that you and your daughter will not be able to hear it with your own ears.”

Barristan put on a face of disappointment. “A true shame. But the heat is terrible, and—”

“Oh, a thousand pardons. This summer has been scorching, the worst I have seen in some time. But the autumn will be worth it, I think.”

The Captain gave a polite cough. “A lovely thought, but we did not come here to speak of the weather,” Ser Barristan said.

That was surely more gruff than he had intended, but if the Master was insulted, he did not show it. “Of course. Follow me. I had our Alashant begin the training a bit later, for you to spectate.”

Sansa followed a few steps behind Ser Barristan and the Captain. The manse was crafted from some kind of pink marble, and she found it strangely beautiful. The slaves that paced past, less so. They all had leather collars around their necks, although Sansa thought they looked loose and unrestrictive. _A constant reminder of what they are._

“Alashant?” Ser Barristan asked.

Alezek vo Hrasher smiled. “It means ‘bender of wills’. Truthfully, the more accurate translation is ‘he who bends the wills of others to suit his own’. Every blooded family has an Alashant, a bloodsworne that trains the next generation of bloodsworne.” _A slave that trains others to be slaves._ Sansa kept her face vacant, as if she did not understand the bastard Valyrian that the Ghiscari was speaking. “My father bought Marsoltor when I was a boy. He fought in the same Abyss from which we plucked the Andal that so peakes your interest.”

“I heard none survive the Abyss,” chirped the Captain. “It is supposed to be a death sentence. Well,” he laughed, “even more so than the Blood Pits.”

“Indeed. The Andal fought for Khal Drogo; he deserved no greater punishment. But the Hound survived, and my father knows an opportunity when he sees it.”

There was a thin silky strip of curtain, fluttering in the wind. “Come this way,” Alezek instructed. They passed beneath the ticklish touch of the curtain, and Sansa found herself staring down into a circular pit of sand and rock.  The sound of wooden swords clashing against spears of timber filled the air. The hot wind of Astapor whipped in Sansa’s face. “This is our training ground. Every day, from dawn to dusk, the bloodsworne are trained.”

The Captain looked down curiously. “Are they all bloodsworne?” A slave offered him a drink, which he took with mumbled words of gratitude.

“Not all,” said the master as he accepted a glass. It smelled like some kind of wine, but none like Sansa had ever smelled in King’s Landing. When she brought her cup to her lips, she found it horribly bitter. A smile squirmed onto her face. When none were looking, she whipped the wine into a potted plant. “Men die in the blood pits every day. Men die as they aspire to earn the mark every day. But most of what you see before you are bloodsworne.”

Ser Barristan looked at him curiously. “The mark?”

Alezek vo Hrasher gave a confident nod. “A sign of worth,” he said as he slapped his arm, “and of strength. A brand that forever lets the world know he has been a bloodsworne in the house of Hrasher.” _Jon was branded, like some kind of animal? Jon, the brother who could always make Arya laugh, who would spar with Robb relentlessly in the yard, was treated as low as an animal?_ Sansa began to regret tossing that wine away. “Some masters actually prefer to brand them on the face.” Alezek vo Hrasher pointed to his cheek. “But our family has always believed that went against our interests.”

Sansa recognized the man named Saethor. He wielded what was essentially a very long, wooden pole that was sharpened into a dull point. His partner was holding up a very large shield, and he was getting the worst of it. “How so?” asked Ser Barristan. He was more focused on the training that went on below than what Alezek vo Hrasher was saying.

“Because the crowd loves a pretty face. I’m not saying the bloodsworne need to be attractive, but a brand ruins their image. Besides, it attracts those that would see them up close, to see something that can only be seen in…intimate encounters.”

“Your…bloodsworne sleep with patrons?”

“Naturally,” the Ghiscari said. “When they are victorious in the renowned blood pits, and especially during the holy weeks of games, the blood that courses through a bloodsworne is divine. The Flayed Twins look down upon the tools of their sacrifice with favor, and with favor comes the rank of demigod. For just a few hours. And if their seed should take root…well, let’s just say that every master in Astapor can trace his lineage back to one bloodsworne or another. Blood divine courses through all of our veins. ‘So it has been written, so it is known’, as the Graces would say.”

Sansa found it all  to be utterly ridiculous. Men don’t become gods by killing others, and no god would sanctify murder. _The gods protect us and give us guidance._ The Old Gods used to demand blood sacrifices. The Old Kings of Winter would spread entrails across the limbs of the weirwood trees, and their pale skin would turn crimson.That had all ended a thousand years before the dragons came upon Westeros.

But she didn’t show that on her face. After all, Arristan Whitebeard’s daughter Minisa could not even understand the bastard Valyrian of Slaver’s Bay. So she smiled and looked at her father with a simple expression on her face. “Father?” she asked, curious, “where is the Black Hound?”

To his credit, Ser Barristan smiled at Sansa the way a father would. “My daughter is curious about the Black Hound. You said his name is Jon?”

Alezek vo Hrasher smiled. “That’s what he named himself, and we had no reason to doubt him.” He pointed to Jon, who was pitted against a man that wielded two practice swords, one in each hand. “There is the Andal.” When Sansa had watched Jon fight in Nierhols’ Pit, she could barely recognize him. But Jon was…he was scarred. She could see the faint pale lines that rode down his neck and shoulder, and his right hand… _What happened to you, Jon?_ The brand was almost comely in comparison.

“He fights well,” Ser Barristan observed. Jon was always best with the sword, but Robb was better with the lance. It had always been that way. Jon and Robb had always tried to best the other, and they never managed to. Mother didn’t approve, but Sansa would sometimes watch her brothers train. She liked to imagine Robb as some galant knight from the songs, and maybe Jon would find his worth somehow. Sansa never thought he would find the love of a queen. She never thought Jon would become a slave.

“He was capable long before we found him. No surprise he found himself in the employ of Khal Drogo. Now, we do have other capable bloodsworne, all fighters that have more than earned their mark. I could show you—”

“The Andal is who brokered my interest,” Ser Barristan said in a tone that suggested no further arguments. “I want a man that knows the culture of my homeland, who speaks the Common Tongue. I have no doubt all your…bloodsworne are excellent fighters who can defend my daughter. I want someone that reminds my daughter of home.”

Alezek vo Hrahser smiled. “Well, it is good for a man to know what he wants. I remember one time, a blooded master wanted to buy some of my father’s bloodsworne. He was indecisive the entire day. From sunrise to evening, my father had to—”

“With all due respect, Alezek vo Hrasher, my daughter and I are very unused to this heat. Could we see the Black Hound? I want to inspect him.”

“Of course,” the Ghiscari said warmly. “My apologies. One forgets you were not born and raised in this city. Will you follow me? I shall have Marsoltor send him to you at once.”

 

**THE WOLF IN THE PITS**

 

“Remember your respects,” the Alashant instructed. The tunnels beneath the Hrasher manse were dark, but the golden eyes of the Alashant were bright. “You bloodsworne live for battle. Your hands are drenched in blood. It is easy to forget.”

The silk-clothed guards opened the iron door. The screech echoed down the tunnel. “I have not forgotten.” _I have not grown comfortable as a slave._

The Alashant nodded in approval. “Good. The Master’s guests are father and daughter.”

That stopped Jon in his tracks. “Are they?”

“The father wants someone to keep his daughter safe. It would appear that he fought for the Targaryens in that civil war.”

 _Could he know of Daenerys? Does he know of my son?_ They ascended the stairs, and light filled his eyes. For a few moments he was blinded, and all Jon could think of what would come next. _Daenerys said she would come for me. She returned dragons to the world. My son has a name. Where are they? Why would any son of Westeros engage in slavery?_

He was led to a long room. Leather chairs were spread out against the wall, and long windows allowed the sunlight to fill the room. The Alashant looked around the room. His dark fingers glided across the table. “I have brought many bloodsworne here, to be inspected, to be sold, exchanged. All of them were men that I called brother.”

“Do you regret that?”

The Alashant huffed. “No, of course not. The bloodsworne vow to serve their house. For the most part, that means the shedding of blood, of taking life in the glorious arena. But sometimes that means you bed a master’s daughter or wife. For their pleasure, mind you. Daenerys Targaryen certainly enjoyed her time with you. I am surprised she did not inquire after you again.”

Jon did not allow himself to smile. “I thought she was pleased?”

“Oh, she was. Hence my surprise. You must serve the house, through whatever means. If that means you are sold, then so be it. You have fulfilled your vow.” The Alashant laid his fists on the table. “You would have done well here. The men respect you.”

“Yarkaz said as such to me.”

That caught the Alashant’s attention. “Did he now? That was well earned. Our Titan never offers compliments. Sweet words do not make a man; it is of blood and tears that bloodsworne are made. And it is true. I taught him that lesson.”

“You were the Titan before him.”

“Yes,” he nodded, “but not of the city. Just of this house. Every house has their champion, but there can only be one Titan of all of Astapor. Yarkaz rose high. I only wish—” The ornate door opened, and the guards that were wrapped in silk stepped softly into the room. Behind them was Alezek vo Hrasher, speaking a hundred words at a time to a man much older than himself. He wore a chiton, but not easily. He took every step with too much care, fearing he would trip on his own feet.

A woman stepped through, with pearl earrings dancing by her ears. Her red hair glimmered in the sunlight, and her eyes were a bold blue. Jon knew her face. It was her mother’s face, who had so often looked down upon him. It was the face that had loved all of his brothers and sisters. It was Sansa.

She could not be real. A thousand questions assaulted him. _What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in King’s Landing? Who are these men? Why are you here? Is Arya alright? Have you met Daenerys? Are you safe? Why are you here?_ The Alashant put a fist over his heart. “This is the Alashant of my house,” Alezek vo Hrasher said. “And this is Jon the Andal. The Black Hound.”

For a moment, Jon forgot himself. _I am a slave._ He put his hands behind his back and raised his head. Alezek vo Hrasher grabbed his arm. “Strong, coarse arms. Something that can come with only years of practice and warfare. See these scars? He has seen death, and withstood it. Now, I admit he is a bit…scrawny when compared to some of our other bloodsworne. I could still—”

“No,” said the old man. His Valyrian was awkward, but serviceable. “He is swift on his feet, and I saw him in the arena. He is more than capable. I would have…questions.”

“If you have any questions, then the Alashant will be more than happy to—”

“Alone,” the old man said firmly. “With the bloodsworne. My daughter and I would like to see him for ourselves.”

A man with an oiled beard that reminded Jon all too much of Illyrio Mopatis smiled. “They come with the full support of the Magister. Surely, that can afford the Westerosi some irregularities, yes?” He stroked his beard. “Yes, yes, that seems very fair to me. Would you not say so, Honored Master?”

There was a defeated look on Hrasher’s face, a fleeing of confidence that Jon had never seen. “Yes…yes. That seems fair. If you need anything, let us know. The guards will lead you to my study when you are done with your…questions.”

The old man gave a stiff nod. “Gratitude.” Alezek vo Hrasher motioned for the Alashant to follow him out of the room. His golden eyes peered at Sansa and the old man for a moment. Then he left, and the guards closed the door behind them.

Sansa’s calmness fled from her. “Jon?” Her soft slippers echoed in Jon’s ears. “Jon. It’s me.”

There was something strange in that moment. Ever since Daenerys grew heavy with Daemon, Jon understood that he would never see his family again. He had made his choice, to build his life with Daenerys, in Essos, far away from the safety of Winterfell’s gray walls. He had said to Dany that Father would protect them…but in his bones, Jon knew those words rang false. He knew what would happen the moment he laid with her. But seeing Sansa, hearing her familiar voice, that bitter truth shattered into a thousand pieces.

“Sansa,” he said in a choke.

She smiled, almost shy, almost in disbelief. “Yes, Jon, it’s me.” She tucked her red hair behind her ear. Jon could see that her blue eyes had grown wet and soft. “I was so afraid. I thought…” She took in a sharp breath, and choked back any tears she had. “You are alive. That is what matters.”

The old man offered Jon his hand. “Lady Sansa spoke well of you, Jon Snow.” His voice in the Common Tongue was filled with strength and confidence. “Her Grace has you in her thoughts and prayers. I am Ser Barristan Selmy.”

That Jon could not believe. “Barristan the Bold?” He took Jon’s hand in a firm grip, but Jon was in too much disbelief to give him anything but a limp shake. “Of course. I saw you when you came with the king to Winterfell. But—”

“I know. I look very different without the white armor of the Kingsguard. I hardly recognize myself at times.”

“No,” Jon said, “not that. Why are you here? Why are _either_ of you here? What has happened?”

The Kingsguard’s blue eyes lost a little of their strength. “There is much to talk about. You should sit.”

“I don’t need to sit,” Jon said stubbornly. “You to—”

“Jon.” Sansa’s voice took on an edge that reminded Jon all too much of her lady mother. “Take a seat.”

He knew a lost fight when he saw one. The chair let out a small screech as he pulled it out from the desk. Sansa took her place just a little further down from him, while Ser Barristan sat across. The man was without cape or armor, but he looked every bit the knight. He did not deal with any pleasantries. “The King is dead.”

That couldn’t be right. Jon was certain he had misheard Ser Barristan. The words couldn’t be so easily put together, so casually said. The way the knight spoke, one would think he was speaking of the weather. It was far too straightforward. But Sansa looked at Jon, and he knew it was the truth. “How?” was all he managed to get out.

At that, Ser Barristan hesitated. “It was a boar that did it. The King was out on one of his hunts, as he was wont to do. A fierce beast emerged out from the bush and tore right through him. Even as…he still speared the boar. It took him several days to die. Robert Baratheon was very strong. Death did not come easily for him.”

Jon remembered the stories that Father used to tell them. Didn’t he wield a warhammer with a single hand? “That means his son Joffrey is now king.” If there was any hope of Father providing sanctuary for he and Daenerys, that was all gone now. Jon supposed it was better that way. They could make their way to Braavos, live in the one true Free City.

“Not for very long,” Sansa said. “If the gods are good.”

That wasn’t right. Sansa was obsessed with being Joffrey’s queen. “Why are you here?” Sansa and Ser Barristan looked to each other. “You should both be with the king. Why are you here?” Jon could feel a fear creeping up in his chest. “What are you not telling me?”

Sansa released a shudder of a breath. “Father is dead, Jon. They murdered him.”

That was madness. “No,” Jon said in a weak and shaking protest. “The king would never…” Three years, Father had made him promise. Three years, and if he still found no joy in Essos, he was to return home. Father would tell him everything then, and allow him to take the Black. He _promised_ , and Lord Eddard Stark never broke a promise or any kind of vow.

But when Jon looked at Sansa, he knew there was no lie. _Your father is dead_ , whispered a voice inside of him. All Jon that Jon was now was a bastard with no father, no mother, and no name. “What happened?” His voice was cracking. He took in a deep breath, and swallowed his tears. “Tell me everything.”

It was Ser Barristan that spoke. “Word reached the king. He knew that the Queen’s child was yours.”

“How? Not even those among the Golden Horde knew.”

“Many of the council did not believe that the child was yours. Your Lord Father argued as such, and I had to agree with him. But that did not placate the king. He wanted you both dead.”

“And my father refused.” Jon’s voice was a low husk.

“And your father refused,” the Ser said. “He resigned from his office, and vowed right in front of the king to safeguard you and the Queen home.”

Sansa looked at the knight. “I didn’t know that. Why would Father…” Jon watched his sister compose herself. She knotted her fingers at her lap. “That was foolish.”

Ser Barristan gave an affirming nod. “Yes it was. But I suspect that your lord father hoped it would appeal to the king in some way. They were good friends. I think if it was any other matter, Lord Stark would have been able to persuade the king. But…not in this, I think. Nothing could have kept King Robert from seeking bloody vengeance on House Targaryen. That is the only explanation I have for why he delayed.”

Before Jon could ask, Sansa cut in. “I don’t know why Father didn’t leave at once. He sent Jory…somewhere. I didn’t see him since the day he resigned. We were in King’s Landing for a few days after that.”

“What… _why_? That makes no sense.”

“He was…” Sansa’s words trailed off. “I think he was searching for something. The Lannisters captured him, imprisoned him. They threw him into the Black Cells.”

“Arya,” Jon said quickly. “What of her? Why isn’t she with you?”

Her chin shook, and Jon could see that her eyes were turning red. “I don’t know,” she said in a croak. “She vanished. Jon, I am so sorry. No one knows where she is.”

All he could see was Arya Underfoot, with her messy hair, and that smile of hers that could always make Jon smile back. He gave her a sword, and she had called it Needle. “But she’s not dead,” he said desperately. He looked to Barristan Selmy. “Arya is not dead.”

“We could not find her,” he offered. “There is a chance that somehow she escaped. Hold onto that hope, both of you. She may very well be in Winterfell right now, fearing that you both are dead.”

Jon could hold onto that. Arya was always resourceful, always clever, always scheming and plotting with a laugh. She was smart and quick on her feet, always had been. If anyone could make it out of King’s Landing, it would have been her. “You said King Robert died by a boar’s tusk. Who murdered my father?”

Jon’s voice had taken on a hard tone, much harsher than he had intended. That took the Ser off guard, but only for a moment. “Joffrey Baratheon gave the order, on the steps of the Sept of Baelor.”

“Father lied, because he had to. For me” Sansa took a long time. She swallowed, and Jon could feel the dread in her voice. “He said he wanted to put you and Daenerys Targaryen on the Iron Throne. He said he committed treason.”

He shook his head. “No, he would never do that.” Who would believe that? “Why wasn’t he allowed to take the Black? Why did—” The words trailed off. Father was dead, because he admitted to a treason he would never commit, because King Robert wanted Dany dead, because Jon was a stupid fool that wanted to protect a girl. Because for once in his life, Jon wanted something, and he took it. “Joffrey gave the order, despite his admission?”

“Despite it all,” Ser Barristan said.

“I remember the screams,” Sansa said softly. “I screamed so loud. I asked someone to help him, as if anyone was going to help him. They took his head with Ice. They stained Ice with his blood.”

Question after question went through his mind. It was all too much, too soon. “What of Robb and Bran? Why is Ser Barristan not with King Joffrey? How did _you_ escape?”

“It was—"

The man with the oiled beard coughed into his fist. “Do not forget where we are.” He spoke the Common Tongue with the Pentoshi tone. It reminded Jon all too much of Illyrio Mopatis. “Alezek vo Hrasher is no doubt asking why this is taking so long.”

“This is Captain Groleo,” Ser Barristan explained. “He commands the _Saduleon_ and two other vessels. He represents Illyrio Mopatis’ interests in this matter.”

Jon wanted to ask just what were Magister Illyrio’s interests were, and why so much of it was focused on himself and Daenerys. “You said that you are ready, then. You—”

He felt Sansa lay a hand on his scarred arm. “You have a son, Jon.”

“I know.” He found a smile lift to his lips. “His name is Daemon.”

Ser Barristan did not approve of that. “Daemon?”

“Daemon Blackfyre was said to have loved his Daenerys,” Sansa offered.

“And waged a rebellion that lasted for a hundred years,” the knight said with a huff. “There are better names for a prince than that.”

“You are not wrong,” Jon said, “but that is what Daenerys chose to name our son and that is the end of it.” He looked to Sansa. “Did you see him? Did you see Daenerys?”

She shook her head. “We saw her, but not your son. But he is safe and well, I’m sure of it. You’ll see him Jon, I promise, and soon. We just need to buy you.”

“Buy me? I’m not some slave to –”

“You are a slave,” Groleo of Pentos quickly said. “And we are here to secure your freedom and safety. With gold, courtesy of the house of Mopatis.”

Ser Barristan tapped at his chest, and Jon could feel the muffled ringing of gold. “The equivalent of a thousand golden dragons. But it won’t come to that much, I promise. I will not see a slaver earn any sort of pleasure from selling off the son of a noble lord, and certainly not the consort of a queen. We can’t let them know just who it is that they have under their roof.”

“I’m no consort—”

Groleo rose to his feet. “I hate to ruin this, but the day is short, and we have much to do. Barristan Selmy, should I tell the guards we are ready?”

Jon looked at the Pentoshi. “Ready for what?”

“For deception, naturally. And dinner.”

 

**A KNIGHT WITHOUT A KING**

 

There was a certain grandeur to the dining hall. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the candlelight dancing in the warm air. The carpet was stitched with bright crimson threads and was golden frilled. But all Ser Barristan could see were couches and cushions to lie against. Alezek vo Hrasher said they would dine as they discussed the finer points of the sale, but Barristan could not see any table, bowls or glasses. “You seem to be confused,” observed the Ghiscari with a warm smile.

“I…am not familiar with how dinner is prepared in Ghis.”

“Ah,” he said, as he laid a friendly hand on the knight’s shoulder, “allow me to enlighten you and your daughter. I know those in the Free Cities sit at tables, but that is no good.” He wagged his finger. “No, not at all. Better for the stomach if you eat while leaning.”

Barristan scrunched his eyebrows. “Like on a bed?’

Alezek fell onto a couch, and his long form took up all the cushions. A slave arrived with a plate of brass, offering a bowl of cherries. The Ghiscari popped one into his mouth. “Just so.” Lady Sansa was a quick student; she had already chosen a sofa and nestled her crimson head among the feather pillows. A slave offered her a glass of wine, a dark vintage that Barristan could not identify by smell alone, and she accepted with a smile. _Hopefully she won’t toss this one into a plant._

Barristan found his place, awkwardly reclining on a couch adorned with cushions and pillows. It was one thing to relax on such a thing after a hard day, but to feast and negotiate while lying down was something different. _I cannot move like this._ If he was at a table, like any other civilized man would be, he could spring to his feet in a moment. But now his robes were tangled up in his feet, and that would only slow him down. He pulled on the hem, before he took an offering of bread and wine from a slave.

Groleo shuffled on a couch, and he crossed one leg over another in comfort. He leaned over the edge and grabbed a vine of grapes, each a bright red and threatening to burst. With a chuckle, he tossed one into his mouth. “It has been a long time since I have known Ghiscari hospitality.”

“And does the House of Hrasher disappoint?”

“Not at all.” The Captain tossed another grape into his mouth. “Apologies, but I am a ravenous man. What courses have been prepared?”

The answer came with a queer scent. Slaves arrived with ornate plates that held something…Barristan could only describe it as jiggling and dripping in a clear gel. “What is that?”

“Jellied dog brains,” Alezek vo Hrasher said with delight. He rubbed his hands together eagerly as a plate was handed to him. “It opens up your stomach and clears the throat. Wonderful for your digestion.” Without any hesitation, he ripped off a layer and plopped it into his mouth.

A thousand excuses entered Barristan’s mind. He was about to voice one, but the face of Lady Sansa insisted otherwise. She tenderly plucked a piece of the meat and placed it in her mouth. A grimace of a smile graced her lips. Despite everything that told him otherwise, Barristan followed her example.

He immediately reached for the glass of wine.

“It is a delicate dish, I admit.” Alezek vo Hrasher was all polite smiles, but Barristan knew he was holding down a chuckle. “But the rest of the course should appease you.” He wiped his fingers on a towel and clapped his hands together. A train of slaves flowed into the room, wielding plates of smoked lamb, honeyed carrots and pecans on leaves, and slices of bread so dripping in honey they almost looked gold. “This should be more suited to your tastes, I presume?”

The Ghiscari presumed right. Barristan brought the bread to his lips, and the sweet smell almost overwhelmed him. He had feasted on salted pork for so long, he had almost forgotten that he had something of a sweet tooth. He remembered how the cook of his home, of Harvest Hall would spoil him something awful with honeycombs, and that was the one weakness that Barristan had never managed to overcome. Just as he brought a towel to his lips to wipe the honey away, he saw a monstrous slave. A being just as tall as the Mountain, but his left arm was deformed and twisted, while his main hand was massive and corded with muscles.

Alezek vo Hrasher must have noticed what caught Barristan’s attention. “Are you intrigued by Arekor?”

“I just—”

“Nonsense. He is one of the most prized possessions of my family.” He clapped his hands and summoned the slave. When Arekor made his way over, Barristan had to keep himself from gaping. The man’s face was malformed, with ugly strands of hair covering the crown of his head, an eye that was large and bulging, and a mouth that bit over itself. The gods granted him strength, and in return took away any hope for a normal life. “A funny story about Arekor. Tell them about your relationship with the Andal.”

“Do you mean Jon, Good Master?”

“Jon, he asks,” Alezek vo Hrasher said with a chuckle. “Yes, I mean Jon! Do we have any other Andal under my roof?” Arekor looked at Barristan. “Speak of Jon,” Alezek demanded.

The slave swallowed. “He offered to train me. To make me a fighter. To craft me into a bloodsworne.”

The Ghiscari leaned on his elbow. “You know, I was always curious why Jon would waste his time on you.”

Arrekor shifted uncomfortably on his big feet. “Because it amused him. To see me reach for something that was forever beyond me.” _That is a lie. Jon Snow is the not the type to torment a creature like that._

“Yes,” said Alezek, “your place is here. He has been here ever since I was a boy, not long after my father bought Marsoltor. My sons and daughters will recognize him. He’ll be here all his life. I will not let him go. Horrifying as he may be, Arekor is precious to me. Has my family not treated you well?”

“The house of Hrasher has been beyond kind, to a wretch such as I.”

“True words. Go to the kitchens, tell Nahemptis to give you a treat. At my insistence.” Arekor made an awkward bow and hobbled away, although Barristan suspected it was more out of embarrassment than out of any ailment. The Ghiscari master looked towards Lady Sansa. “How is your daughter liking the lamb?” Alezek motioned towards her plate.

Sansa gave an approving nod. She dabbed a corner of a towel to her lips. “Quite well,” Barristan answered, “gratitude.”

Alezek vo Hrasher chuckled. “Nothing of it. You are guests under my roof. I am no stranger to those not of Ghis. They often find our food to be…acquired tastes. And honestly, one can only have so many dog brains, honeyed locusts, and pickled octopus before one desires something less exotic. This lamb is quite refreshing, I must admit.” For emphasis, he sucked the juices from his thumb.

“A wonderful course,” chimed in the Captain. “The almonds in particular taste quite rich.”

“Imported from distant Braavos. The fools may think themselves beyond slavery, but they do have the most wonderful delicacies.” He popped an almond into his mouth. “Very salty though.” The Ghiscari flushed his mouth down with wine. “Very salty.” He rubbed his fingers on the towel. “Where are you from?”

Barristan blinked. “Pardon?”

“Not Westeros. I understand that you fled from there after the dragons fell. But where have you settled?”

“Pentos,” Barristan said quickly, before he put wine to his lips. “Why?”

The Ghiscari shrugged. “No reason. I was just curious about how you earned the appeal of a magister. That is an extraordinary thing, for an exiled knight.” He focused on Barristan. “How _did_ you accomplish that feat?” His lips were all smiles, but his eyes had a sharp glare to them.

Sansa gave him a curious look. Minisha smiled sweetly at her father, but the eyes of Sansa Stark were fearful. “Friend of a friend,” Barristan said quickly. _That was stupid._ He ripped through the honeyed bread.

“Friend of a friend,” the Astapori nodded. “Well, when you return to Pentos, tell him I am grateful. Your home makes you coming here curious. Didn’t Pentos outlaw slavery after the wars in Braavos?” For a moment, Barristan was without words. Then Alezek laughed. “Of course there are ways to get around that. How many magisters has my family hosted that needed a new servant, who would so conveniently be paid so little that they could not possibly escape into freedom? Slavery always thrives, even in places where it shouldn’t. Is that not so?”

Barristan swallowed his anger. “Truly. It is so.” He tore off a morsel of lamb and forced it into his mouth. The juice of the lamb calmed him down some, and gave him the courage to start the next question. “I believe we should get started on the business at hand.”

“Are you in a rush? Well, I don’t blame you. I would much prefer to have this sorted out myself. But if we shall negotiate, then let me bring in the Black Hound. Where is the Andal? Bring him out!”

 

**THE WOLFGUARD**

 

The man with the salt and pepper beard frowned. He looked Jory over like he was some kind of mule. “And you say you are Naesl’s replacement?” He planted his fists into his sweat stained tunic.

“Yes, Maesa.” Talrios had told Jory that was a term of respect in most of the Free Cities, especially in Volantis and Lys. “Naesl got a fever. Ate some sort of clam.”

“Bah,” he said with a snort, “I said not to eat anything curious in Astapor. They eat dog brains here. I don’t recognize your face, though.” Uncertainty weighed down his words.

Jory was quick to appease him. “Maesa, we were taken on just half a moon before we set off. We were there when Lady Saleyna performed at the…” Talrios had him repeat the name a thousand times. “The _Zycharlale_ House.” Jory scratched at his chin. It had been too long since he had shaved; he had begun to grow a beard. Talrios said he had seen this Lady Saleyna sing, and that she had the sweetest voice in all the world.

Khaero nodded, and he licked his lips. “Right then. What’s that, the fire pits?”

Jory turned his head, towards the giant wagon that Harwin and Alyn had just pulled up. “Yes, Maesa,” Jory said. He bent his head. _Do Essosi bow their heads in respect?_ He would take the risk. “It’s for the dragon.”

“Bah, dragons. There are real dragons in this city. Why not get the Targaryen girl to give them some fire? Too risky by far. One clumsy foot and this whole place will go up in smoke and fire.” _That’s the hope._ “Well never mind that. These Astapori cunts want to risk it, that’s on them. Don’t let them know I said that.”

“Of course, Maesa.”

The big man turned around quicker than Jory had thought possible and nearly bumped right into the door. “Gods!” he screamed at the wood. “When did they close the door?”

“While we were speaking, Maesa.”

The man’s nostrils flared as wild as any boar. “These Astapori and their damned…gods take their eyes. Follow me.” Harwin and Alyn struggled to keep pace. Khaero turned to them and ordered them to stay. “Watch the cart. Make sure nothing happens.” They gave the supervisor blank stares until Jory motioned for them to nod.

 _One wrong move and everything is in flames._ Once the doors were open, the worst was done with. But until then, they were on their own.

The Auditorium loomed over them, a giant red ball of brick and mortar. _And blood_. Jory remembered the truth behind Astapor. _Bricks and blood. Bricks and blood._ Jory almost wanted to say that the Auditorium was an impressive. The high stone walls of Winterfell were a beautiful sight, and Jory could almost say that the curved walls of the Auditorium took his breath away. He had never seen stone bend like he did in Astapor.

In Astapor, everything was paid in blood. Slaves died so the masters could listen to their pretty music. Jory imagined men and women dying in the heat, skin covered in the pink dust of the bricks, their final breaths hoarse and weak. The cracking of whips ripped through his mind.

He held back a shudder.

Khaero motioned him to stay close. “Don’t want any more of the masters to see you than necessary.”

“Would they ask questions?”

“Without a doubt,” he grunted. “Now come.”

Jory followed. A carpet stitched from the furs of a thousand beasts was stretched out across the steps and into the hall. A few Astapori guards stood at the entrance, but they were armored in soft silk, and armed with wooden shields and spears folded in bronze. Just as decorative as the massive harpies at the entrance, and half as impressive. They gave only a slight glance at Jory and Khaero.

They stayed close to the wall, but Jory’s eyes were everywhere. There was a stair as wide as any road that poured forth from Wintertown, and it was the whitest thing a man could make. What kind of stone could those steps be carved from? On the wall were a hundred layers of images – spiraling winds, twisting tides, curled flames of dragon fire, harpies whose wings were sharper than a sword’s edge – overlapping each other, carved from some brilliant material. Jory wanted to say it was gold, but it couldn’t be. The entire wall was covered in the shining, golden sheet.

The floor beneath the carpet was carved with a thousand spirals upon each other. They knocked and rolled, and the black and gold paint seemed to dance when Jory stared for too long. The fires above twirled. What must have been a hundred candles hung from an iron circlet that descended from the curved ceiling, and some devilish innovation allowed it to spin. The light they gave off sparkled against all the gold and silver in the hall.

 _Men made these things._ He would sometimes overheard Septa Mordane’s lessons to Lady Sansa, when she was just a child. He had heard a thing or two about the “paradise” that the Seven Gods of the South had prepared for their devoted children. _Am I there? Have I died, in those small moments between heartbeats, and entered paradise?_ But then a grunt from Khaero brought Jory out of his dream.

He was in Astapor. And the beauty that stretched out before him was paid for on a scale weighed down with death.

“Stay close,” the fat man ordered, “you…you…where did you say you hailed from?”

Talrios had gone over everything with him. “Braavos,” Jory said with air in his voice. He stretched out every word to be three times longer than they had any right to be. “My father was Westerosi. Northman, if I remember right.”

Khaero nodded in approval. “Right. We bought out a singing troupe in Braavos. Makes sense. Well, stay close to me, Braavosi. We don’t want to attract…ah, gods take my eyes.”

Jory saw exactly why Khaero wanted the gods to take his eyes. If there was anything worse than having an Astapori whip wielder approach them, Jory could not think of it. The man was wrapped in a ridiculously tight cloth, edged with absurd frills that were topped with…pearls? Had to be. He had left behind a small party that included a pregnant woman. “Who are you?” The man’s Valyrian was brought down by the gutter speak of the Ghiscari.

“Supervisor of the company,” Khaero said quickly. “We were only—“

The Ghiscari shook his head. “Not you, I know who you are. You.” It was then that Jory realized that the Ghiscari was focused on him.

“He is one of mine.” There was more than a hint of impatience in Khaero’s voice, but also a touch of respect. “Just a worker.”

“Forgive me, overseer, but I was asking him. Not you.”

Jory prayed a hundred times in the span of the moment that Khaero would intervene. He said not a word. “As he said, Maesa. I am a laborer. A…stagehand.”

“You sound unsure.”

Jory quickly shook his head. He tried to think how a slave would feel when intimidated by a master. “Not unsure. Just eager to work. We were locked out.”

The Ghiscari raised his brow. “Locked out from where?”

“The basement.” Khaero chewed on his lip. “Which we should be getting back to, if you would not see the opera delayed.”

“It should be prepared by now.”

“I have overseen a hundred performances and operas, and not a single one was every truly done until the curtain fell.”

The Ghiscari shot a glance between Khaero and Jory. He lingered on Jory for a heartbeat. But that heartbeat seemed to stretch out for an hour’s span. _He is looking at me. What is he looking for?_ Jory was about to open his mouth when the Ghiscari dismissed them with an absent-minded wave of his hand

 “Fine.” His turned his back on both of them. “Off with you.”

Khaero mumbled something beneath his breath as he gave Jory a sharp tug on his sleeve. That one mumble was followed by a dozen more. His mutterings continued until the gold and silver was replaced with cobwebs and a musky smell within the basement halls. Jory could hear the distant sounds of creaking wheels, the none-too-quiet complaints of men working further down in the halls, and the pounding of hammers that echoed in the distance.

And singing. Jory heard plenty of singing, all of it in Valyrian, and in more pitches than he could count. Most of it was off key, rough around the edges and throaty. A last minute practice, before they ascended onto the stage.

It would be their last time. _They are innocent._ The thought almost brought Jory to a stop. _These singers and workers, what are they guilty of? Wasting their lives on songs and performances?_ That was not a crime. Lady Sansa loved the rare instances when a bard would make his way into the halls of Winterfell. Jory thought it a giant waste of time, as did his Uncle Rodrik. But neither he nor his uncle would wish death upon any of them.

And these singers…they were of different sort than those that frequented taverns. There was an elegance in their voices, a beautiful quality. Jory stopped in his steps. He had to listen, for just a moment…

“What are you doing?” barked Khareo. “Come on!”

He followed and left the sweet music behind.

 

**THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE**

 

“Was all that necessary from Paraszys?  The man was just a worker.” Terzac reclined into his seat. Astrazys had effortlessly rented one of the balconies, and Terzac saw the theatre spread out beneath him. A hundred plush cushions and featherbeds were laid out across the floor. And between all of the lush pillows and the stage was the pit for the orchestra. “Does he really need to view every disturbance as a slight?”

Astrazys waved him off. “Ignore the man. What’s done is done, and we are now all comfortable in our plush. Feathery. Seats.” With every word Astrazys allowed himself to sink further and further into his chair. “The opera will start soon enough.”

Terzac chewed on his lips. “How much longer, do you think?”

Astrazys licked his lips as he considered. “No more than an hour, I say.” He pointed a finger at the floor below. “Most of those seats aren’t yet filled. And you can see that the brass horns are still being fitted.”

“They look like terribly heavy things.” Those instruments were crafted from steel, Terzac could see. They shone and gleamed beneath the thousand lights of the candles. The light from their fires spun across the ceiling, and the various gold ornaments reflected hundreds of tiny embers. As he looked into the orchestra pit, Terzac could see men hammering the bases of the horns into place. “But aren’t they damaging the instruments?”

Astrazys scratched at his chin. “I don’t think so. That hammering probably does no damage to the important bits.” He chuckled at some private joke. “But I am hungry. Terzac, would you care for some grapes? I hear they have been imported from Myr.”

“I would.” He had broken his fast with only a small plate of bread and paste, and a luxurious meal would not be offered until the intermission. But until then, plenty of small offerings would be provided. “And some red wine too, I think.”

“What a fine proposal.” Astrazys leaned over and pulled on a finely knotted rope. Terzac did not hear the tolling of any bell, but he did hear the footsteps of a slave. When the drapes of the curtain were elegantly pushed away, Terzac twisted in his seat. The slave was dressed in a robe that went down to his waist, and around his neck was a golden necklace. He bowed in respect. “Grapes and red wine. For two. Quickly.”

The audience had begun to trickle in. Terzac could hear a buzzing inside of his head. “The heat was terrible today.” Astrazys nodded in agreement as he slouched in his seat. At some point, the slave returned with the bottle of red and two glass cups, along with a silver bowl filled with sweet grapes. He filled his glass and washed his throat with the wine.

He had always loved the sweet taste of the wine that could only be imported from the Free Cities. The Ghiscari grapes were too bitter for his tongue. Father had always admonished him for that. _I could not love every part of my city, Father. Some things call a man to distant shores. For me, it was the wine._ He wondered if that was the same with Alezek. Did he look at how Volantis controlled its people, and think to himself ‘How can Astapor not be as such?’ That thought was a great deal more dangerous than wine.

All had gone quiet. Some of the candles had been put out, leaving only small stretches of orange in the dark shadows of the theatre. It took Terzac a long moment to realize what had happened. “Oh!” Astrazys shot him a puzzled glare as he straightened himself in his seat.

There was the sound of a light tap, and as Terzac peered over the balcony, he saw the conductor raise his hand. For the briefest of moments, there was silence.

Then came the shrill of strings and the flutes poured forth a sharp sound. At that moment, the steel curtains drew back. They were shaped like the wings of Mother Harpy, and as each segment of her steel feathers folded, the grinding sound was accompanied by the soft whispers of the flutes. The music was almost as light as air.

When the curtain had pulled away, Terzac saw the players. They were dressed in mismatched robes, patched over a dozen times, and ash was spread on their faces. Swords hung loosely from their hands. _Wooden swords. Or blunted at the least. They wouldn’t risk killing each other for a performance._ Or perhaps a master had donated some of his slaves for the occasion.

A  man crawled onto the stage, his hair tied back into a tight braid. “Dragons.” The word prompted a howl of strings, a low roar from the horns. “Demons of blood and smoke. They are coming, my brothers. My brothers!”

There came the sound of chains. A man was dragged from offstage, and Terzac could see blood on the man’s cheeks. _No, that’s makeup._ He had seen enough blood spilled to know the real thing from the illusion. The man was dressed in a most extravagant costume. A collar rose up around his neck, like some kind of scaled fin. Terzac counted _three_ layers of sleeves that poured from his coat. He wondered how the man was able to even move.

Then again, the man was being dragged more than anything. Far too roughly to be an act. _Or maybe it is an act. This is a show. Illusions that we pay to see._ The man twisted his head. Terzac was too far above the performance to know for sure, but he thought the man looked afraid. _When a weak man is at the end of his life, you can see his soul in his eyes._

“What can be done?” A woman in a simple dress looked towards the crowd. Her arms were outstretched. “Against monsters of fire and sky? What can the claw of a harpy do against such evil?”

There was the brilliant shrieking of an unsheathed blade. Another man appeared from offstage. His head was wrapped in a hood, and Terzac could almost say there was a brilliant gold light in his eyes. _Tricks of the stage. Illuminations. Lies for the story._ He balanced the blade in both of his hands; the hilt rested on his right palm, and the steel blade rested upon the other. He stood with pride and confidence. _The actor knows how to wield a sword._ Then Terzac saw his arms, and knew he was no actor at all, no singer that would take part in the opera. There was a brand on his flesh.

“I will tell you what can be done,” spoke a man. He had stepped forth from the crowd, and he was dressed as a king. The others were in rags, while his robes were blue and green and white. “What must be done. My old friend, render truth.”

The old friend stabbed the Valyrian. And the orchestra shrieked in a cascade of horns and sharp strings. Terzac could feel a swell of something in his chest. Terzac felt the strong beat of his heart. _It is a beautiful melody._

Slowly, a chorus built. A small thundering collection of voices that grew with every beat of Terzac’s heart.

There was a moment’s hesitation from the players. The slave’s blood dripped into the floor. Terzac could not see the blood collect and form. _It must be a contraption right below him, to collect the blood and steer it away. And these singers…did they not know they would see a slave die? This is Astapor. Did they think we would settle for anything less than the raw material?_ “Who are you?” asked a man. His voice sounded frail, but only for a word or two. He approached the edge of the stage. “He who would ride against dragons, the foul abominations of the earth? Who would unite the sons of sky and rock?”

Then the chorus thundered, and the drums pounded so sharply that Terzac found himself without breath.

He turned towards the audience, and lifted his head. “Know my name. I am Grazdan.”

 

**THE CLOAKED WOLF**

 

Before Jon arrived, Alezek vo Hrasher summoned his lawyer. “This is Yezarkaz.” He pointed towards a slave that, aside from the leather collar around his neck, did not very much look like a slave. His beard was curled in waves of black and crimson, and a gold sash went from his shoulder to the belt that kept his robe in place. “My father sent him to the Academy in Yunkai as a boy, and he has been an integral part of our businesses ever since.”

 _They have a slave for everything._ Yezarkaz gave a polite nod of his head. “This one is pleased to serve.”

“He will handle all of the legal matters. Receipts, contracts, passing of ownership, things like that. We take slavery very seriously in this house. Blood and ink binds civilization together. Is that not true?”

Sansa thought that sounded foolish, but she supposed a lawyer was just a maester by another name. And she didn’t know what Father would have done without Maester Luwin to guide and counsel him. But she got the impression the lawyer named Yezarkaz did very little counseling, and did more following of orders.

The lawyer came prepared. Another slave drew up an ornate chair, and as he sat down, he drew out an inkwell and a roll of very fine parchment. “This one is ready at the master’s inclination.”

Alezek vo Hrasher was inspecting his nails, lazily. “The master is inclined to start now.” He looked up at the slaves in aggravation. “Where is the Andal? I summoned him near a fortnight ago.”

_It was not even an hour._

Her brother did come, escorted by some of the guards. Sansa found it curious, how they wore silk in place of cuirass. What would happen if a blade came for their chests? _Their pretty silks would turn crimson, I would imagine._ Sansa hated looking at her brother, dressed in worn cloth as he was. The more she looked, the more she risked being exposed. _Minisa, Arristan Whitebeard’s daughter, does not know you, will not flinch at the sight of you. She may even find you comely._

The idea she even considered that gave Sansa a shiver. _For the next hour, Jon Snow is not your brother._ If she kept up the farce, she could consider becoming a mummer.

Alezek vo Hrasher clasped his hands together. “So, everyone is assembled. The interested patrons, the slave up for auction, the lawyer to make it all legal and true, and the master’s son who will determine if everything meets his satisfaction.”

Captain Groleo smiled, his beard glimmering in the light. “Then let us begin!”

“Yes, let’s.” He looked to Ser Barristan. “Begin.”

The knight’s eyes darted from Groleo to the Ghiscari master. “Begin?”

For a moment, Alezek vo Hrasher was bewildered. Then his eyes grew bright, and realization struck him. “This must be your first time. My apologies. I forget that you Westerosi are unfamiliar with this sort of thing. Give me an offer.”

Ser Barristan sucked on his lip. “Three hundred.” The Ghiscari peered at him. “Golden dragons. Three-hundred golden dragons.”

Alezek vo Hrasher squinted at Yezarkaz. “How much does that convert to honors?”

The lawyer licked his quill. “Two-hundred and seventy, if it would please you.”

“It would not. Far too low. How many of these Westerosi dragons for six-hundred honors?”

“Six-hundred and sixty, if my numbers are correct. And if it would please you for me to say, my numbers are very rarely wrong.”

“It does please me,” he smiled. “That is a fair price for a bloodsworne. Six-hundred and sixty of your golden dragons.”

Captain Groleo gasped at it. “That is absurd. I am a man of the seas, and even I know that is far above the norm. Jon the Andal has only gone to one of the great games.”

“Gone to and _won_. Besides, an Andal is a rarity. A rarity that you will pay well for, I should add. Six-hundred and sixty golden dragons does not seem so outrageous to me.”

Sansa shuffled towards Ser Barristan. “Father,” she said in a strained voice, “accept the contract.”

“He is swindling us, Minisa. I am a knight, not some fleshmonger, and even I know that.”

“Of course he is.” Her voice rang in a sweet tone, but her blue eyes were narrowed and focused. “That would also leave us with three-hundred and forty dragons. Let us save my brother, and be done with this farce.”

“If we go too quick, he will ask why we are in such a rush.”

“Let him ask after his lawyer releases Jon into our arms. What matters more – the life of my brother, or whether some slaver that cheats us?”

The Ghiscari smiled. “Is all well?”

“Yes,” said Ser Barristan in Valyrian. “It is just my daughter. She is a bit restless.”

“A lovely peach pudding awaits us after this is all settled. The kitchen is stirring it as we speak.”

“Excellent.” Ser Barristan sighed and gave Sansa a glance. She smiled back, blissfully. “Six-hundred and sixty golden dragons—”

 _That’s too high._ Would Arristan Whitebeard be so willing to spend so much? Too fast, too soon. How many slaves had Alezek vo Hrasher bartered away? How many times did he watch his father? “Father,” she sang, her blue eyes aglow with ignorance, “stop.” Ser Barristan turned, and his eyes were all confusion and bewilderment. “That’s too much. I was wrong. He will ask questions. Talk him down.”

“You just said—”

“I know what I said. You must make the effort, or this mummer’s farce will go up in smoke.”

For a moment, Sansa saw doubt flicker in the knight’s blue eyes. But then the Ser hardened himself and turned his gaze towards the master. “Six-hundred and sixty dragons is too much. You make money off of the games, yes?”

Alezek vo Hrasher had not expected that. “Yes; commissions, and the winnings from each battle.”

“I will not have those benefits. Jon will not be brought to any great games; no gold will flow into my purse whenever he kills a man in my Minisha’s defense. The price you want is unfair, all things considered.” Ser Barristan leaned forward, his fingers plucking a grape from the vine. “Four-hundred and fifty.”

The Ghiscari would not settle for that. “Five-hundred and thirty.”

“Five-hundred,” said Barristan Selmy. “Any higher and we shall enjoy the pudding, and make our way to Meereen. I hear they have fighting pits there as well.” Sansa gulped. _That could have been too much. What if he decides to keep Jon instead?_ Ser Barristan was a true knight, but how capable a liar was he?

Sansa feared that Alezek vo Hrasher would scowl, or frown, and decide that no business could be made. But he tapped his fingers on the soft cushions, his dark eyes considering Ser Barristan’s words.

Then he smiled.

“Five-hundred golden dragons for one bloodsworne. Yezarkaz, sign out a receipt for the value—”

Then there came the hurried steps of a slave, and Sansa could clearly see the worry that had spread onto his face. He bowed so low that Sansa feared he would topple over. “Forgive me, Master.” The words came out in a frightened rush. “He insisted on being here. Said he tired of waiting. He listened to none of us, his men pushed Telsi and Qulip aside and—"

“What?” Alezek vo Hrasher rose from his sofa. “Who is here?”

“Bloodbeard.”

Sansa’s ears were filled with the clanging of metal rings, and the heavy steps of boots thudding on a polished floor. A large man strolled into the room, the tallest Sansa had ever seen besides Gregor Clegane or the Hound. His red beard rolled down his chest in filthy curls, and his blue eyes simmered on Jon. She felt a chill fill her stomach.

Sansa tore her eyes from him and looked to Jon. He had been so calm before, but now there was something in Jon’s eyes that she could not easily place. The careful consideration that reminded Sansa so much of Father was gone.

 _Rage_. _Anger._ His grey eyes had grown hot and thirsty, and Sansa did not know what scared her more: this man called Bloodbeard, or her bastard brother.

“You are the master’s son.” His voice was a growl, every word a sharp point to press into those that could hear. He didn’t wait for a reply. He strolled over to Jon. A few slaves shuffled nervously away. Bloodbeard drew so close that her brother must surely have smelt the man’s breath. “Hello again, Andal. I told you I would have your meat.”

Jon said nothing, but there was no fear in him, even as Bloodbeard towered over him. “Bloodbeard,” Alezek vo Hrasher called. He had risen to his feet. “Your business is with me.”

“That it is.” Sansa could see that some of the guards of the household had begun to filter into the room. Their pretty hands were lingering close to their glimmering swords. “Having your purse filled with the gold of Paraszys has advantages.”

“Perhaps.” Alezek kept his face still, but Sansa could hear the slight tremor in his voice. “You have come for Jon.”

“Indeed I have. He was supposed to be dead by now. I’ll ensure it myself. Once I pay, his life is mine.” Sansa felt her heart leap into her throat. _No! Alezek agreed to the five-hundred!_

But Alezek vo Hrasher smiled a serpent’s smile. “I think not. I have just reached an accord with Arristan Whitebeard and his daughter.” Sansa could not keep herself from letting out a sigh in relief.

Bloodbeard’s fingers tightened into a fist. “You would cross Paraszys?”

“I remember what your patron did. And I am feeling more inclined to honor a magister rather than a pure master on this day.” He rubbed his hands together as if he was cleaning dust off of them, and walked past Bloodbeard. The man’s blue eyes were simmering. “Yezarkaz, fill out that receipt. Five-hundred dragons, am I wrong?”

“This…” The slave swallowed. “This one is most pleased to say that it would come to four-hundred and fifty Ghiscari honors.”

Sansa’s heart had crawled up into her throat. Bloodbeard looked at Jon like a mad dog, foaming at the mouth, desperate to taste flesh. “You would trade him for just that much? The man that was the Targaryen bitch’s lover?”

The Ghiscari’s eyes went wide. “What?”

“That man,” and Bloodbeard pointed his finger at Jon as he would a dagger, “horned Khal Drogo. forced that confession out of him after he maimed me. His name is Jon Snow. Does that name mean anything to you?” His eyes narrowed like a snake’s. “He was close to Khal Drogo. Very close, going by the state of the Khaleesi when I set her to torch and pitch.”

Her heart beat, but Sansa confused it for a thunderclap. Groleo stroked his beard, and let out a chuckle that was weighed with apprehension. “We know nothing of this Jon Snow, or what he did. But we did have an agreement, Master Alezek—”

“ENOUGH!” Alezek vo Hrasher’s voice didn’t have Father’s conviction or the thunderous power of King Robert’s, but it still shook Sansa all the same. “There have been too many lies spread under my father’s roof. That ends right now.”

Sansa heard the screeching howl of steel being drawn from scabbard. She heard Joffrey whispering in her ear. _Ser Ilyn, bring me his head_. The guards grabbed Jon. Their jeweled swords were pointed at his throat. Ser Barristan reached for his sword, and was shocked when he remembered that he did not bring it. He made to strike one of the guards, but then there was the thunderous crack of a whip, and it coiled around the knight’s neck. Ser Barristan gasped and choked as he struggled, his fingers digging fruitlessly at the coarse leather.

“Thank you, Marsoltor,” Alezek vo Hrasher coolly said, “for your service to this house.” He brought a glass of wine to his lips and sipped. “I will have answers. If I do not get what I want, this Jon Snow will die. There have been plenty of lies told to my father’s face. But I promise you, that promise is something you can believe.”

The Captain made to get to his feet, but a crescent axe was pointed to his chest. “This does not need to come to violence.” There was a shakiness in the Pentoshi’s voice. His mirth and charm were gone. Sansa could see the dread in his eyes.

“It won’t,” promised Alezek. “But if I don’t get what is owed to me…” Sansa saw there was a dagger in his hands. He drew close to Jon, who struggled beneath the fierce grip of the guards. The edge drew close to Jon’s chest.

Sansa spoke without thinking. “Stop!”

Alezek turned, eyes wide. “You speak Valyrian?” Sansa nodded. All within the room looked upon her. Despite his desperate gasps, Ser Barristan pleaded with his eyes. _Go._ But there was nowhere for her to run. A Stark would not run. “Your name. _Now_. Give me the truth.”

Minisa died. “I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Jon Snow is my brother.”

The dagger was pointed to Ser Barristan. “And the old man? Who is he?”

Sansa did not look to him. “He is Ser Barristan Selmy. He is…we are both in exile. But not for the reasons we told.” That seemed to placate the Ghiscari. An inch. He drew away from Jon. His thumb graced the point of the dagger. “Do not hurt Jon. You must not sell him to Bloodbeard.”

“I must not? Let me tell you something, Sansa Stark. By the law of Astapor, by augury, by the wisdom of the Green Grace, your brother is my _father’s_ property, and as his son, I can do whatever I desire with my father’s property.” He was upon Jon in an instant, and gripped his throat. “And if I wanted to take this knife and carve him from collarbone down to his balls, I could! And if I hear _one more lie_ I will fulfill that promise! Believe that!”

Sansa tried to force back the tears, but she couldn’t. She could hear the roars of the crowd around Baelor’s Sept, a thousand years ago. “I do. I _do_.”

“I want to know why you are here. I want to know why Barristan Selmy is here! And I want to know why a captain for a Pentoshi magister is here!”

“Because Jon is being hunted by the Lannisters!” Sansa could fear her heart thunder in her chest. “He is my brother. The Lannisters want him dead. They want Daenerys Targaryen dead. They want their baby dead. They want my whole family dead.” Lord Varys gave her no choice. Go to her brother and risk death in Essos, or stay within the Red Keep and suffer at the Lannister’s hands. “I am trying to bring my brother home.”

He seemed satisfied with that, and turned to Bloodbeard. “And why do you wish him dead?”

The man pulled the hair on the side of his head away, revealing a gaping maw where an ear used to be. “He scored me. I will have his heart.”

Alezek shrugged. “A fair request. Reasonable. I would want the same in your says. Denied. Throw him out of my home. I won’t see him again.”

“ _What?”_ Bloodbeard let out a roar as he pushed against the guards. “I will pay _double_ whatever you demand of them.”

The Ghiscari’s eyes were all fury. “You could offer me the entire wealth of Astapor, and I would still not sell my slave to a dog of Paraszys sol Nierhols. When you whimper back to your master, you tell him that I piss on his face. Tell him that insults are not taken kindly in my father’s house!”

Despite the man’s protests and roars, he was pushed out of the room. Sansa could hear his promises of blood and death down the halls, until they perished with an echo of a boom. “Marsoltor, release your grip on Ser Barristan.” The whip released its coil, and the knight fell to his knees. Breath returned to him in wheezes and coughs.

Sansa got to her knees and laid a caring hand on the knight. His eyes were water, and he mumbled something, but all Sansa could hear were his gasps for breath.

“Sansa Stark, to your feet.” The master held his hands behind his back. He looked almost regal, save for the few dark strands of hair that dangled in front of his face. “I will not do business with someone on her knees.”

She rose. “But you will with a dagger pointed at her brother?”

“Considering the circumstances, that is more than fair.” He cleared his throat. “You gave my father and I the impression that you would be willing to pay a premium price for the right bloodsworne. I happen to think that your brother is the right bloodsworne.” Alezek vo Hrasher narrowed his gaze on Ser Barristan. “How many dragons did you bring?”

Ser Barristan’s voice cracked. “If you—”

“If he speaks again, hit him.” Marsoltor loomed over him, coiled whip firmly in hand. He gave a stern nod. “I ask again, Sansa Stark. How many golden dragons are on your person?”

Sansa swallowed. _I cannot be afraid. Are wolves afraid when they are against a bear?_ “If you allow Ser Barristan to stand, you will find a leather pouch containing a thousand golden dragons in his robe.”

“Yerzarkaz. How much would a thousand dragons come to?”

“Nine-hundred Ghiscari honors, if it would please you.”

“I am becoming pleased less and less. Knight, remove the pouch.” Warily, Ser Barristan rose to his feet. His hand dug into his robe and produced a leather purse, fat and ringing with the clanging of gold. One of the guards tore it from his hands and offered it to Alezek vo Hrasher. He felt the weight of it in his hands. “The price of the brother of Sansa Stark. One thousand golden dragons. It was a pleasure doing business with you all. Now, once you enjoy the pudding, be so good as to get the fuck out of my house.”

 

**THE WOLFGUARD**

 

Jory wondered if there was any other way besides putting Khaero to the sword. But as Harwin pulled the knife from the man’s throat, and as the blood poured out in a spray onto the ground through his fingers and his gasps for life, Jory knew there was no other way. The fat man stumbled to the ground, and his eyes lingered on Jory.

Then he died.

Harwin wiped the blood from the dagger. Alyn peered out of the gate and whistled. Jory saw the Tattered Prince’s men arrive. They were wrapped in cloaks, but Jory knew there were blades hidden beneath the dark folds. They pulled back the hoods. “Westerosi,” one of them said. “You took your sweet time.”

“We were delayed,” Alyn said. “They closed the door.”

Denzo D’han pulled back his hood. His hair was long and gray, and his face had a weathered look to it. He had a kind and forgiving look…save for his eyes. Denzo D’han was always looking, always staring, even when he wasn’t. That’s what all the Windblown said of the Prince’s right hand. _Denzo D’han misses nothing._ “Forget that. Is everything in order?”

Jory nodded. “It is.” He grabbed the cloth that was draped over the wagon and pulled it off. There certainly was an iron canister that could hold fire, Khareo was not wrong on that count. But that canister held a barrel filled to the brim with oil.

And the tunnels beneath the theatre of the Auditorium were filled with torches. Jory looked down the hall. He saw only the small flickers of distant fires hanging from the wall. But he heard the scrambling of actors and stagehands.

The drums above were keeping a steady beat. _DUM-DOM-DUM-DUM-DOM._ The music echoed through the walls. Jory felt a slight tremble in his boots.

Once the last of the Windblown stepped through, the door was closed behind them. Darkness clouded them. Then Harwyn grabbed a torch down from its sconce, and the darkness was beaten away by the copper-red light. “Right then. What’s next?”

Jory felt the Prince’s Right look at him. “We have the pillar that supports the left wing. Hugh and Gerrold, push the bloody wagon.”

“You want me pushing when I am three fingers short?”

“That’s what you get for stealing from the company. Now push. As for the rest of us…” There was the hissing of swords being pulled free from scabbards. “You coming, Westerosi?”

Jory felt Alyn and Harwin look at him. Despite all that had happened ever since they fled from King’s Landing, he was still their captain. “Aye, we’re coming.” They drew swords.

The echoes from the drums fell down from the stage above their heads. The musicians played their music, and Jory could hear the lush voices of the singers. But here, deep below, he could hear only the clanking of metal and the grinding of the wheel against the stone floor. A cold sweat crept upon him then. _I thought I could escape the heat of Astapor._ But even deep beneath the ground, Jory could feel his hair clinging to him, and his clothes scratched against his skin.

He felt dizzy as they made their way through the tunnels. _I am not afraid. A son of the North cannot be afraid._ The words echoed in his head just as loudly as the drumbeats from above. His father was not afraid when he marched south with Lord Stark. Jory could not be afraid as he killed slavers, to ensure the life of Lord Stark’s son.

 _Do you know how much he loved you, Jon? He went this far for his bastard. I am going this far for you._ He thought to turn around, right in that moment. Doubt flashed in his mind. _Is it right to set flame to the innocent along with the slavers?_ But as soon as the thought arrived, it left, and in its place stood resolution. Jory pressed forward.

_DUM-DOM-DUM-DOM-DUM._

The drums were getting louder, and Jory could hear more of the music creep down from the theatre above. He heard the flutes and the horns, and something had seemed to awaken in the Windblown. They all moved a little faster, the wheels turned more swiftly, and the chimes of the steel blades grew louder and louder.

It was as if none of them cared to hide themselves. Perhaps they didn’t. _They are here for gold, but Harwin and Alyn and I are here for our lord’s son. And for the blood of the masters._

Slavery was an abomination. Every good man in the world knew that to be true. Perhaps the only places good men were to be found were Westeros and Braavos. If that was the case, then the horned spirits were waiting for the Masters of Astapor. Their bodies would be food for maggots, and worms would tunnel into their eyes. Their souls would find no rest for all that they had done.

They turned a corner,  and the pillar stood in the center of a wide room. For some reason, Jory had expected some grand and ridiculous display of Astapori engineering, but it was boring and forgettable. For all intents and purposes, it was a massive wooden shaft strengthened by steel rings.

Denzo D’han approached. “Well, there it is. Put it to oil and torch and let’s get out.”

The wagon was rolled past, while Hugh and Gerrold Three-Fingers huffed all the while. Gerrold muttered something under his breath, some curse on someone’s mother. “That’s it?” Alyn scratched at his nose. “We found the pillar. Now we get out?”

Jory licked at his lips. The one constant warning he had heard on the streets was to fear the Unsullied. But there were no Unsullied in the basements of the Auditorium, and the swords were out, and the pillar was being covered in pitch.

Jory put up his hand. “Wait,” he said. “Do you hear that?”

Gerrold Three-Fingers panted, his cheeks a flaming red. “Hear what?”

Something whistled through the air, sharp and swift. Gerrold and Hugh yelped and dove for the ground, and Jory heard one of the Windblown cry out. Jory dove for the floor, the hard stones scraping against his elbow.  There was a chaos of noise, men making for the ground and orders being yelled out.

Silence followed. Jory could hear the flickering flames of the torches. He raised his head, slow and fearful at first. Sticking out from the fire pit was a bolt.

“What the—“

One of the doors opened, and Jory saw men emerge. They were not armored in silk, but dressed in hardened leather and rings of mail. “On your feet!” yelled out Denzo D’han. “We’re Windblown - you know it, let them know it too!”

Crossbow bolts sung through the air, though Jory would be damned if he knew from where. Some of the Ghiscari – they had to be Ghiscari – clashed with the Windblown. Steel ground against steel. Men gasped as their stomachs were ripped open, axes tore through their necks, bolts ripped into their sides. The dark stone floor turned slick and crimson.

Jory’s sword was in his hand. It had been ages since he had wielded it. He always told Lord Stark that he knew how to wield it as well as any man. He never said how he hoped to never have reason to do so.

But when a Ghiscari, clean shaven and dressed in studded leathers, came upon him, Jory knew all his hopes were damned. The Ghiscari brought his sword down, curved and with letters carved into the edge, and Jory brought his up to meet it, long and forged from Northern steel. The blades hissed against each other. The Ghiscari’s blade slid off, and Jory saw his chance. As quick as a weasel, he brought his blade down.

A weasel was quick, but the snake was quicker. The Ghiscari blocked the strike, the second, and the third after that. But with each strike he was losing ground, and Jory pressed him. There was fear in the man’s eyes. He swung low in a mad and desperate, but Jory saw it coming. He stepped out of the way. The Ghiscari was exposed.

His eyes went wide.

Jory’s sword plunged into his belly. It went in easy. _Was it always so easy, killing a man?_  The man coughed up blood and fell, his hands flailing at the sword that was sticking out of him. Jory saw a crimson streak drip down from the wall where he fell.

As he pulled out the blade, the Ghiscari wailed. Tears dripped down from his eyes, and his lips wobbled. For a moment, all the Ghiscari could do was stare. “Who are you?” It was a whisper so faint Jory almost didn’t hear.

Jory thought on what to say. “Your enemy. That’s all.”

The Ghiscari closed his eyes. Jory could already see the color flee from him. “Can my enemy fulfill a request then? Wine. One last drink.”

“I have no such drink. No cup.”

With a strained effort, he lifted a bloody finger towards the door. “That there is a store. I would die with some wine in my belly.” Jory didn’t like the sound of that. If there was a trap, it would be there. “No trick, I promise.”

That sounded like something a trickster would say. “Fine,” Jory said. He turned, and saw the battle was already dying. Ghiscari were scattered across the ground, begging and pleading as the Windblown tore the life from them. He heard one cry out for Mother Harpy, whoever she was.

The wine was exactly where the dying man said it would be. Dozens of bottles were cradled on wooden shelves. They had labels glued onto them, but the letters were in Valyrian, and Jory could only speak the tongue. _I told Maester Kristoff the language of dragons was too pretty on a Northman’s lips._ Father would have agreed with him, but Uncle Rodrik would hear none of it. Jory found a bottle filled with red wine, from where he could not say. _Red always tastes better than white._

The Ghiscari was still dying when Jory returned. The Windblown were putting the finishing touches to the rest, but they had left this Ghiscari well enough alone. His breaths were heavy. Jory raised the bottle. “Apologies. I found no glasses. Do you need me to pour it into you?”

The Ghiscari summoned the strength to snort. “I have the blood of the Harpy. I can still hold my own bottle.” He winced as he squirmed against the wall. “Give it here.”

Jory handed it to him. The Ghiscari looked at the bottle. _Second thoughts about taking wine from an enemy?_ Then he took the cork into his mouth, and pulled it out. The man had a good jaw; he sent the cork flying across the room. He did not hesitate to drown himself in the wine. The pink water flowed down his chin as he tipped his head back. When he pulled the bottle away, he took a big swallow and allowed himself to breathe. “I almost killed you.”

“Did you now?”

He managed a nod. “You were putting too much effort into your strikes. I just had to endure a few more hits. I kept telling myself that. One more strike, and enough of your strength would be gone.”

“Perhaps. How is the drink?”

“Piss poor. Too sweet on the tongue. It’s from Lys, I think.”

“What’s wrong with Lyseni wine?”

The Ghiscari looked at Jory. “It’s _Lyseni_ wine. Not of Astapor. A son of Ghis should die with his home on his lips.” His fingers lost their grip on the battle, and it fell onto the floor. Wine spilled, mingling with the blood that was filling the cracks of the floor. “Why are you here?”

Jory could avoid the question. The Ghiscari was dying. But in the end, that was why he answered. “To end slavery forever.”

“Nonsense.” A cough tore through the Ghiscari’s throat. “Such is the way of the world. Can you stop the earth from spinning? Can you tell the sun to stay in the sky forever? Will summer not end and winter come?”

“Slavery is not those things.”

His breathing was becoming shallower. “Listen,” he said hoarsely, “I am the second son of Khazar tur Hierkas. My wife and two sons - neither have seen their tenth year - whatever you do, do not let them come to harm.”

Jory shook his head. “I know not what will happen after this. Astapor will burn, but to those that survive—“

“Please.” His breaths sounded like the wheezes of an old dog. “I can ask only this.”

Jory looked around the room. Denzo D’han was giving orders. The canister filled with oil was already opened and oil was being spread across the room. Men had lit several torches. “Why me? Your enemy. The man that killed you?”

“Who else?” The man sighed, and died. 

 

**THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE**

 

The battle was well and truly on, if the orchestra had anything to say about it. The horns summoned forth a boom of music, a thunderous sound that made Terzac’s heart leap in his chest. The string players kept a steady and deliberate pace. As their fingers pressed against the wood, their bows raced up and down the strings of their craft. A massive barrel of a drum was summoned for the opera, and the drummer wielded a wooden hammer in each hand. With each strike, the drum let out a bellow.

And all the while, the singers commanded the attention of the audience. Grazdan – the actor, not the founder of Ghis – waved a sword high over his head. Every word that poured from Grazdan’s lips were long and melodious. Every sound was precious and to be savored.

Terzac was transfixed by it all. Whenever Grazdan sang of the battle, for the Ghis to press forward and steer away the tide of the barbarians, the orchestra answered back with a blast of horns. It was a dance, between the singer and the players.

Flames of cloth were pulled and tugged in the background. Something like a fire was burning inside of Terzac. Sweat so cold it burned his skin dripped down his face. A foul taste wrapped itself around his tongue. He tried to drown it away with a mouthful of red wine, but he could taste none of the sweetness.

The flames danced on the stage, surrounding the singers. “Terzac,” Astrazys said suddenly. “Are you fine?”

His hands felt as heavy as steel. He tried to wave Astrazys’ concerns away, but Terzac could barely lift his arm. He let it fall onto the arm of the chair. “I’m fine,” he mumbled. His lips felt bloated and numb.

Astrazys shook his head. “You do not look fine.”

“And how do I look?” He knew how he felt. Like something was threatening to rip through his chest, and every beat of his heart was like a hammer striking a gong. His fingers were aflame then. Below on the stage, Grazdan the Great was standing triumphant over the dragons. “Look upon us, gods and brothers!” His voice broke away from the song then and he looked to the crowd.

Astrazys took him by the arm. “Like a man who is about to die. And I won’t have it. Father would never forgive me. Up!”

Terzac had no strength to stand. His chest was fire, and a thousand nails were clawing their way through. “From this day forth,” sung Grazdan, his sword raised high, “none shall oppose the Harpy! Woe to those that would try!” Terzac felt a great shiver come over him.

Something clawed through his chest, tore through bone and flesh. He cried out, and Astrazys lost his hold on him. The floor rose up to meet him in a flurry of gold and night, and Terzac fell right into the face of it. Astrazys called out his name, but the words seemed a league away, far and distant like an echo.

He would have cried out in pain, but the words were stuck in his throat.

Astrazys turned him over. He said something, but Terzac was deaf to it. Tears blinded his eyes, but in that damp vision Terzac saw gray fingers worm beneath the folds of the door. He gasped out.

Through all the pain, Terzac could feel something rising in the air. _None speak. None breathe. None whimper. All fear._ Terzac wanted to raise a hand, but there was no strength in him.

Astrazys turned. He knew. “Fire!” he screamed out. He pulled on the door, but it would not budge. Terzac could hear the sound of something locking the frame in place. Astrazys’ shoulders sunk, his fingers digging into the handles. He pulled a second time, a third.

Then came the screams, and a hundred feet storming up the theatre floor. Women cried out, men gasped as they were trampled, and a horde of the desperate rushed for the doors. They banged and pushed and pulled; the iron rattled like bells as fingers strained against the handles. The noise and the chaos below rose up like a roar, drowning out all else.

Astrazys said something. His eyes were wide, and tears dripped down his cheeks.

It was in that moment that he knew. The scratching in his throat, the heat in his chest, the restless nights. They were all the signs of the monster, of this demon that lingered in his heart, toiling at his end. Waiting, waiting, to kill him. He was too focused on everything else, he missed what was happening in his own body.

Alezek. _Alezek._ His son. So much to say…so much to do…

Terzac turned over, his hands clutching at his chest. His heart beat on, each thud more thunderous than the last. As the smoke filled the theatre, all he could feel was the sword of flame piercing through his chest.

 

**A WOLF**

 

A slave’s fingers sang sweet music as they danced across the strings of the harp. Jon thought the music was utterly unfitting. A numbing had overwhelmed the ends of his fingers, and he could not feel the warmth of Sansa’s hand that she so delicately placed over his own. It took her a very long time, and she took her time doing it, but she told Jon everything. Her eyes were well and truly red by now, and there was a puffiness to her cheeks that Jon had never seen before. Perhaps the one and only time that Lady Catelyn had exiled her to her room, and even then, that was over something childish and foolish.

All that had happened now, childish and foolish it was not.

The slaves took away the bowls of pudding, both of which had gone untouched. Jon noticed that Ser Barristan took a few stabs, but mostly his watchful gaze was focused on the two children of Lord Stark. The knight had granted them the time to be alone, as much as they could be afforded.

Father was dead. Robb was the King in the North, Bran and Rickon princes of Winterfell, Sansa had travelled across the world with the support of Illyrio Mopatis.

Father was dead. Executed they would say, murdered Jon would name it, without trial or noble rights. It reminded Jon all too much of what happened in the throne room before Mad King Aerys, but at least the Lannisters afforded Father the illusion of justice. An illusion as thin as paper.

Father was dead. The last time Jon had seen him, he was caught in a warm embrace. Something he should not have done, not so publicly, not on the Kingsroad, but Father would not be refused that parting gift. “Three years.” The promise echoed in Jon’s memory.

Father was dead.

“Jon?” Sansa’s voice was soft. Her fingers tightened, not hard, just enough for Jon to feel them rub the knuckles of his hands. “Did you hear me?”

Jon felt himself nod. “I did.” He cleared his throat, hoping the raspiness would escape his voice. “I’m so sorry, Sansa.”

“Don’t you dare say it was because of you and Daenerys.” His sister’s voice came out with an edge, and that took Jon by surprise. “The Lannisters were the enemy, and I was too blind to see it. We all were.” They had Lady killed. Father had swung the sword, but only at the insistence of Cersei Lannister. “They would have struck against us all, sooner or later. You saw how fat the king was. It would only be a matter of time before he died.”

“You think they were responsible?”

“Yes,” she said. “They would do that. But King Robert wanted to kill you, Jon. Said you had allied yourself with the Targaryens.”

“That is not the truth. I wanted to protect her. Bedding her, creating a child with her…that was not my intent. I regret so much of that now.”

“Don’t. Father wouldn’t, and we are together now, and Robb is riding against the Lannisters. Once we unite you with the queen, we can plan how to safeguard Robb and everyone else.”

Jon blinked. “The queen? I never—”

“She is the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” Jon turned and saw that Barristan Selmy had approached them. Thick dark lines had slithered around his neck, but Jon had to admit the man posed an impressive figure all the same. His blue eyes had a strong shine in them. “I knew your Lord Father, Jon Snow, and he was as good and just a man as I ever saw, and he was loyal until the King declared his intent to have you and your son murdered.” Ser Barristan glanced away. “I should have persuaded your father to flee the city. I don’t know his reasons for remaining, but it was madness.”

“Ser,” Sansa said, “that was not your fault.”

Jon had been thinking on the events that led to Father’s death. Something about it hadn’t sat right with him. “Where was Jory Cassel? He was the commander of Father’s guards. He should have been with him when the Baratheons and the Lannisters came for him.”

Ser Barristan rubbed his hands together. “I cannot say. I knew of the man, although I cannot remember the last time I saw  him. I did face him in the tilts, during the tourney held in your father’s honor.”

Jon smiled at that. “Father did not approve, no doubt. He always hated tourneys.”

“That he did. Especially after Jon Arryn’s squire was killed during it. Your Father…had suspicions.”

 _Suspicions? Of what?_ He knew little and less of tourneys, considering how few of them were ever held in the North. But Father had remained in King’s Landing longer than he should. Jon would never call Lord Stark a foolish man. Everything he did was considered several times over, and Jon knew on some matters he would even consult with Lady Catelyn before he reached a decision.

Jon was about to voice his thoughts, but the approach of Alezek vo Hrasher put a stop to that. He had in his hands a sheet of parchment, the ink fresh and wet. “Sansa Stark, we are just about finished. Here is your receipt for nine-hundred honors, in exchange for Jon Snow. Provide your signature, and you will be your brother’s keeper.”

Ser Barristan kept a stern gaze. “And then we can go?”

“Why, Andal, you can leave whenever you please. We’re all free men here.”

Sansa rose to her feet and followed after the Ghiscari master. She glanced back at Jon before she was led to a desk where the lawyer awaited her.

Jon looked towards the captain. The man’s beard still glimmered, but the casual confidence had gone from his eyes. “Well, we seem to have come out of this with our heads intact. I am glad to see you still draw breath, Jon Snow.”

He gave a polite smile. “I feel inclined to agree, Captain. And why did Illyrio Mopatis feel inclined to get you involved in all this?”

The old captain gave a shrug. “What the Magister wants is beyond my comprehension. I would say loyalty to the cause of restoring House Targaryen to that ugly iron throne of yours.”

 _And why is a magister from Pentos so insistent on the Targaryens being the kings and queens of Westeros?_ It had been so long since Jon had thought of anything outside of Astapor. He was so focused on surviving, on making it to the next day, he had not even considered the events that led him to the Crimson City. When he saw the Magister again, he would have many questions.

Jon found himself tracing the grooves of the brand. _I won’t forget my time here. My body will give ma mple reminder._ “There are ways to deal with that,” Groleo of Pentos assured him. “It won’t be pretty, but by the time we return to Pentos—”

“No,” Jon said. “I have enough scars.”

“That you do,” said the old knight. “You’ll have to tell me the story behind some of them.”

“Perhaps I will,” Jon smiled. “Once you tell me about some of yours.”

Ser Barristan chuckled at that. “We would be here all night. But I could mention a few.” His fingers trailed a thin line that grew up from the hard edges of his chin into the middle of his cheek. “When I faced against Maelys the Monstrous, her mace struck me right in the face. Good thing I had a helmet, to shock the blow, but the bent metal had ripped into my face, and it threatened to tear the rest of my face off. We had to get a smithy to dismantle the helmet, piece by piece. There are times when I cannot even feel that side of my face.”

“Small price, to end the Blackfyres.”

He gave a nod. “I understand that the magister wanted to send you with the Golden Company.”

“Aye,” Jon said, “and it would have occurred after Daenerys’ wedding. But it didn’t sit right with me. Why the Golden Company? He surely has his fingers in a dozen other companies. Why sign me with the most infamous of them all?”

“The Golden Company is the most renowned of them all,” offered Captain Groleo. “None are more desired. Or more costly. You would have a fat purse after your contract was done.”

Ser Barristan frowned. “And no other company has ever been a more recurring enemy to the free people of Westeros. No, Jon Snow was right to question it.” He rubbed at his chin. “But that doesn’t matter now. Once you are free, we will bring you to Her Grace, and decide what is best.”

Jon furrowed his brows. “What is best? I already know what is best. I need to keep my family safe. My sister came all this way for me, but that doesn’t mean the Lannisters will stop hunting her, or Daenerys. They still want to kill my son.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Joffrey is hardly the man that his father was.” Jon glanced towards Sansa. Her back was turned to them, as she decorated the contract with her signature under the dutiful instruction of Alezek’s lawyer. It had been hours since…Jon wouldn’t call it a negotiation. It wasn’t an agreement. Give up all the gold they possessed, or Jon would die. But Alezek vo Hrasher would not hand Jon over without all of the legal rituals he desired.

He felt an aching in his bones. He was eager to leave, to feel the hot air press on his neck, to walk the streets because he could. Not that he wanted to walk among the enslaved and those that chained them, but he wants to be able to make that choice. Because as soon as Sansa was done with the needless rituals, Jon Snow would be a free man.

Jon wanted to see Daenerys, to kiss her, to touch her.  He wanted to hold Daemon. What did he look like? Did he favor his mother or his father? How healthy was he? What did he sound like when he cried? How small and precious were his fingers? Jon should have asked Dany when he saw her. _Back when I was enslaved, when I could only watch as Iorwen was murdered in front of me._

He looked down at the brand. He would never watch another man be murdered. He would never need to stay his hand, to allow something terrible to unfold just because that was how things were done.

“Where is Daenerys? Where is my son?”

“In one of the pyramids,” Ser Barristan answered. “I think she mentioned something of a Kraznys…” His words dragged on as he struggled to remember.

“Kraznys mo Nakloz,” Jon said. “He has something to do with the Unsullied, if I remember right.”

Captain Groleo bobbed his head. “You have the right of it, Jon Snow. His family have been producing Unsullied for…well, your Aegon the Conqueror had not even been a seed in his mother’s womb when the first Nakloz began to cut his boy slaves. And Astapor had been training the Unsullied for ages long before that. But the Nakloz house has exceeded all others in recent memory.”

“You seem rather knowledgeable of this family of slavers,” observed the knight.

Groleo stroked his beard. “I am a merchant captain by trade, and I represent one of the most powerful magisters in Pentos. You rub elbows with many figures of influence across the continent.”

“Then we find this pyramid, we find Daenerys, we find my son. You wouldn’t prevent a man from seeing his son, would you Ser Barristan?”

The old knight furrowed his brows. “I suppose not. What would be easier, I wonder: wrestling a dragon, or keeping you from holding Daemon?”

“The dragon,” Jon promised.

“The Skyward Court is not too far from here,” said Captain Groleo. “It would not be too difficult to find the Nakloz pyramid. Just follow the roar of the dragons, I suppose.”

“Finding the pyramid is one thing, being granted an audience is quite another. Jon Snow,” leaned the Ser, “I promised Her Grace that I would safeguard your life. I cannot promise that so long as we are in the city. Let us go back to the _Saduleon_ , and wait for Daenerys there.”

That was wise and cautious counsel. Father would certainly approve of it, but Jon could only think how Robb would smile and demand what any of them would do to keep him from holding his nephew. _Father is dead, but we are all alive._ Jon had been wise and cautious for three months, and he was growing weary of it. “You wish to keep me safe, then do so at the side of your queen. Once my sister is done with her scribblings, I intend to make my way to Daenerys.”

Ser Barristan liked that not one bit. Jon could see the concern in his blue eyes. “I suppose I should find a dragon to wrestle with. Very well, Jon Snow. Your father was a stubborn one, and I think you are no different. Captain, you need not come with us. Wait for us on the _Saduleon_ , if it would please you.”

“It would.” Groleo smiled beneath the thick bushes of his beard. “Forgive me for saying so, but I much prefer the simple knowledge of being on a ship, instead of this trickery we have found ourselves in.”

The knight could only smile back. “Captain, I cannot fault you for that. I—” Jon could hear something, a dull clamor in the distance. “Did you hear that?”

Groleo scratched his nose. “The harpist is pleasing enough, grant you—”

“I heard it,” Jon said. “We need to get Sansa. I don’t like this.”

And almost as if it was all a grand play set up by the gods, Alezek vo Hrasher and Sansa appeared before them. She was holding a piece of parchment close to her chest. “And with that, Andal, you are no longer ours.”

“Good,” Ser Barristan said.

On the far side of the room was a balcony. Jon could see the blue sky beyond the thin wisps of the curtain. “Can the front gate be seen from there?”

The Ghiscari scrunched his brows. “Yes,” he said warily. “What does that—” Jon didn’t wait for him to finish. He rushed his way across the room to the balcony, and peered down. The front gate was forced open, the curved letters bent and ruined from a hammer blow. There was blood on the polished stone path. Men with crossbows had formed a perimeter, a wide arc to hold off an assault.

One of them noticed Jon.

Jon hit the ground, before the air howled with the screeching of bolts. They impaled the stone arches, tore through the wooden walls and the flourishes of the doors. A woman screamed, and the howl of shattering glass pierced through the air. The harp twanged as it was pushed to the ground, and Jon heard Sansa scream.

“LADY SANSA!”

Jon scrambled to his feet, hot breath beating out of his lungs. Jon felt one of his sandals tear as he rushed towards Sansa. Ser Barristan had already risen, standing protectively in front of her. Groleo had fallen on his hands, his once sure eyes now shaking with fear. He was mumbling half words.

Alezek vo Hrasher, to his credit, was still standing. The Alashant was at his side. “Master,” he said, “we must get you to safety.”

“They came through the front gate,” Jon said. “Bloodbeard won’t be far.”

“The Company of the Cat? What did you _do_ to him, Andal?”

“You saw what I did,” Jon said. “Alashant, you need to reach the bloodsworne.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “And leave the Master alone with you?”

“We have guards,” Alezek said. “I do not need the bloodsworne.” The sound of steel carving through flesh filled the air, men in their death rattles, the mad rush of feet in retreat, the crash of pottery being thrown to the ground, screams.

“Your guards in silk will not protect you,” Ser Barristan said. “Your bloodsworne can fight.”

Alezek turned towards the Alashant. “We go together. Dividing up is too much of a risk.”

“It would be faster if—”

“I am the master of this house. You do not belong to me anymore, but that does not mean you overrule me under my own roof.”

They had no choice. The Company of the Cat had taken the front entrance by now. Jon would sooner leave Alezek vo Hrasher behind, but the manse was a mystery to him. He had to rely on the man that he once had to call master. “Then lead the way.”

Alezek snapped his fingers and summoned two of the guards to them. Their curved swords glimmered prettily under the right light, but that did not fill Jon with any confidence. Jon could see plenty of their flesh beneath the thin robes, and he saw no scars or signs of battle. _This gets better by the moment._

“Sansa,” Jon said in a hushed tone. “Stay close. But if anything should happen—”

“We are not leaving you, Jon.”

“That is _precisely_ what you should do. That is what I am telling you. That is what you need to do, if it comes to that.”

“Then it won’t,” she said. Jon could see a flare of confidence in her bright eyes.

Jon had always thought that the halls of the manse were quiet. It never had the bustle of Winterfell, where one could hear the labor of servants echoing down the hall, or the singing of steel from the yard below. But as they rushed through the polished hallways, Jon felt the silence weigh down on him. They were all in danger, and they were mostly without weapons. Jon placed no trust in the jeweled swords of the guards, and the Alashant was adept with his whip…but a whip was no match for a well-made sword.

 _Sansa’s life is threatened because of me._ Despite her insistence, Jon knew that Father had lost his life because of him. He won’t let that same fate befall his sister.

A woman’s shriek sliced through the air. “This way,” Alezek insisted. He kept a good pace, despite the tokar that was wrapped around his hip. They made their way past a fountain, the harpy’s head unleashing a gentle flow of water. Jon stepped over a slave, her shoulder carved in half from an axe, her blood pouring into the pools of the fountain.

Half a dozen paths were opened up to them. A chamber here or there, hallways that loomed in the distance, a staircase that spiraled upwards with the bronze designs of harpies; an hour ago, they were all safe. Now each was a road to death and slaughter.

The chaotic stomps of boots heralded Cats in the distance. “Here!” Barristan Selmy hissed. He grabbed Sansa by the wrist and pulled her towards the wall. Jon followed, and he heard the clumsy steps of Groleo behind him. The steps grew louder, and the mutterings of the Cats with them. Jon stifled his breathing. If it came to a fight, he needed a weapon. He saw vials of oils, olive branches, and the bronze fountain head of the harpy. _Poor tools when it comes to killing sellswords._

Could Jon kill a man with just his hands? He supposed he could. No-Eyes had wrestled with him enough that Jon could say he’d have an advantage. But would it be enough? _Can I keep Sansa safe?_

Hide. That was the only choice left available to him. Ser Rodrik would never approve, but Winterfell’s Master-at-Arms was not here to protest. Jon placed his hand on Sansa’s shoulder. _Stay down,_ he wanted to tell her. If they were discovered, he could spring up, give her time to run. It would not be far, though, not in the dress she was in.

“Bloodbeard wants the Andal,” came a rough voice. “In and out. Kill him, then go home.”

“All this for one man? For one ear? Shit, it’s not like he doesn’t have another. That cutter lets things get too personal.”

“It don’t matter what he thinks. He pays us, and right now he is paying us to kill that Jon Snow.” He felt Alezek’s stare weigh on him. “Hey, how about here?” From the corner of the wall, Jon could see the tip of a sword. It was crimson, and wet.

“Nobody’s here. Look! Dead slaves everywhere. The fuckers didn’t have a chance.”

“Good chance to get our swords wet.”

“Aye, that’s true. Come, let’s turn around. Nileasro and his boys should be around the corner. Maybe they found the bastard?”

None of them dared to move, dared to breathe, until the clangor of the mercenaries’ steel became a distant ringing. Each bootstep may as well have been the boom from a thunder strike, as far as Jon was concerned. “They desecrate my house,” Alezek vo Hrasher hissed, “threaten my life, all for _you_? A man that still holds the brand of slavery on his arm?”

Ser Barristan helped Sansa to her feet. “Did you not see the look in that man’s eyes? He wanted my brother’s head. He would have paid two-thousand dragons to feast on his heart!”

Jon wanted to take her hand, to calm her, but something told him that he shouldn’t. “Sansa,” he said, “enough. All of you. You think to offer me to Bloodbeard, is that it? Like you would the other bloodsworne in the pits?”

The Alashant stepped forward. “Watch yourself, Andal. You are no longer one of mine, but do not think I would hesitate to remind you how you must respect the Master.”

“ _Respect?”_ There was a temper in Sansa’s words that she normally saved for when Arya had ruined another of her dresses. “For the man that put my brother in chains, that—”

Alezek did not take that bait. “Enough. The time of trading Jon for peace is over. I would love to see your blood flow for what you brought onto _my_ house, Andal, but it won’t do us any good. The bloodsworne are not too far now. We just—”

A door burst open, hinges sent flying like bats from a cave. The door rattled onto the ground, as loud as the ringing of bells. They turned and saw Bloodbeard step forth. His red beard was glistening with sweat, and men with crossbows and axes and swords were at his side.

“Sansa,” Jon said, pushing her away from him. “Run.”

 

**THE CLOAKED WOLF**

 

The dead girl’s eyes were blank, and white, a pale void that stared back at her. Blood stained her toes and her hands. Sansa could only shiver. She felt something rise up in her throat, hot and bitter. Green spittle dribbled from her lips.

Sansa could see the girl’s head. It was brutally severed. The flesh was cut, ripped and torn where the neck should have been. Half of her face was covered in the bloody pool. In life, Sansa would almost have considered her fair and sweet. Sansa could see her cheeks had been dashed with blush. A thousand questions went through her mind. Was there a man in her life? A slave or a master? Was she forced to look so fair? Where was she born? How did she become a slave? Was there a brother that wanted her safe from harm? Did her father care? None of them mattered; the girl was dead, and Sansa was sinking into the crimson pool.

The head turned against the slick, cold, bloody floor, and it was the face of _Father_ that she saw. His eyes had no strength to them, his beard was blood-stained, lips pale and insipid. “Get up,” came the drawl of the dead man. “Get up.”

 _Get up. Get up. Get up._ She kept telling herself that, but her body would not move. Her knees were frozen, blood pooling around her. Then the sound of steel split through the air, and Sansa found herself crawling against the wall. She wouldn’t stand. She _couldn’t_ force herself to get up. Her fingers were caked with blood, and her red hair was tangled in knots.

Jon told her to run, and she did. Her dress was ripped and torn. Did she do that? None of the swords or bolt had come close to her. It had to be her own doing. Septa Mordane would have thrown a fit, but Septa Mordane was dead, and Jon told her to run.

The dead were everywhere. How long had it been since Jon pushed her and she threw herself against the wall? How long since she fled down the hal? Sansa remembered the gurgles of one of the guards as a bolt tore through his throat. Someone else cried out, but she could not remember if it was Jon or Ser Barristan or Captain Groleo or maybe it was even her. Maybe Sansa was dead already, and her soul just didn’t know it.

If she was dead, her body gave no show of it. Her heart roared in her chest. She felt warm droplets drip from her chin. She could not find the strength to stand, but she could still move. In the distance was a cry for mercy, and the answer of bloody steel.

Her fingers. They were caked with blood. Not her blood.

Sansa felt the cool wind blow, and the silk curtain tickled her skin. She grabbed it and scrubbed her hands all over. It was a crimson and ugly thing when she was done, and Sansa could still see that blood had seeped beneath her nails. _You need to stand, if you want to live._

She grabbed a fistful of the pretty curtain and pulled. She heard the curtain rip and tear under her weight, and she felt the strain at her knees and ankles. But Sansa Stark was on her feet. A shiver coursed through her. Her teeth chattered inside her skull. Her eyes felt so sloppy and wet that Sansa feared they would roll right out.

There were the stomps of boots, and the cries of the dying. To the left of her, below her, perhaps even above her. _Move or die._ Did Sansa Stark come so far, flee from King’s Landing, traverse along the Essosi coast, only to die?

One of her slippers had fallen from her foot. She felt her toes sink into the blood that had seeped into the stone. She fled down the hall, not certain where she was going. All the walls looked the same, built from the same pink, polished stone. Where was Ser Barristan? She had ran, but she could not have outrun him, not in her dress. Could he have been killed? _No, he’s not dead. He’s not._

And Jon…he had told her to run, and that was the last she saw of him. They couldn’t have traveled so far only for Jon to be slain. Sansa could not believe that. The gods would not be so cruel.

She stumbled her way into a room, a wide chamber that smelled of spices. Vines twined down a pair of pillars, and between them a bed large enough to fit Sansa and all of her brothers and sisters. The blanket was dyed gold and brown, but it was stained crimson. A woman, more naked than dressed, had a crossbow bolt sticking out of her chest. She was sprawled over the edge of the bed, her dark hair dangling.

 _I must not be afraid._ But fear was all Sansa felt. The dead were everywhere, the sellswords were carving through the manse, the dread of not knowing what had happened to Jon surrounded her, she was alone, and what good was a lone wolf? _The lone wolf dies._

Her hands were shaking, and her lips had gone soft, as she made her way through the chamber. She bumped into a counter, and the decanters rattled, and a vial of oil rolled onto the floor. She fled from the smell of spices and the wine and the murdered woman, and left the room.

Sansa could not hear the pounding of boots as she peered around the door. She opened it only a crack – it was all she dared to do – but even then the door seemed to moan like a dying beast. She saw no blood-stained curtains, no dark and gruesome pools, no sign of the murdered or of the murderers.

She took a careful step, but it might as well have been as loud as a horn blast in her mind. _Where am I supposed to go?_ She could hear the trickles of a fountain. Was that the same fountain as they first passed, when she was still with Jon and Ser Barristan? Jon said they had to reach the bloodsworne. The guards had no chance. Sansa had seen more than enough evidence of that; she had stepped over dozens of their corpses. But where were the bloodsworne? Below, she suspected. That could have been anywhere.

Her bare foot stepped on bare stone. She took her other slipper off, and held it up…like a club? “Stupid girl,” she shuddered. She dropped it to the floor. Carefully, with a thundering heart in her chest, she made her way toward the sound of the fountain. If nothing else, she could use the water to wash her face, remove the blood from her hair. She could be given a minute to compose herself, surely.

The broad, green leaves guided her to the fountain. Sunlight streamed in from the open roof above her, and Sansa could hear the muttering of monkeys and the strange cries of birds she had never seen before. One had a beak larger than its head, another had feathers as colorful as the crystal crown of the High Septon, and there was one bird with a feathery fin top of its head. Animals ran between her legs and flew from one branch to another.

It was the height of the Astapori summer, but Sansa felt goosepimples ride up her arms. She rubbed them together, praying for some warmth. It didn’t work.

She heard something rattle against a cage, and when she swept away the dark blades of a bush, she saw what it was. Something like a lion, but it had no fierce mane, and it was covered in dark spots. It growled and hissed against the iron bars. Sansa took a step back, afraid, her heel sinking into the dirt. For a moment, she felt a stab of pity for the creature. _But it would probably try to kill me as soon as one of the Cats._

Sansa left the garden and the beast behind. The fountain stood before her. A harpy hammered from bronze towered over her, casting Sansa in its grim shadow. A volley of water erupted from her mouth, her wings seemed to be reaching for the sky, and the scorpion tail was coiled at her feet, poised and ready to strike. _If only you were real. I’d accept your help, as monstrous as you are._

But the harpy wasn’t real, and Sansa was alone.

She drew herself up to the fountain and submerged her head. The water was cool, and sent prickles down her back. She tore out the pin that held her hair up, and she considered throwing it aside. But then she decided to slip it into the hem of her robe. Wet strands of crimson fell in front of her face, and Sansa weaved her fingers through her hair. The water took on a red taint as she washed the blood from her hair.

Time seemed to still. Sansa looked around, one of her hands tracing the ripples in the fountain, and she breathed. It had seemed so long since she was able to take in a breath. Before, it was nothing but hot gasps for life…but now, Sansa could just let the air course through her.

She looked at herself in the reflection of the pool. The rouge had streamed down her face in ugly pink streaks, and the eyeliner produced black tears. Her red hair was tangled, and her fingers did a poor job of combing through it. _I almost look like Arya_. _She was always covered in dirt and sweat._ Sansa wondered what Arya would think if her sister could see her now. _She’d probably think I am some sort of imposter, because her sister Sansa would never get her hands dirty._

“Arya is dead,” she said to her reflection in the pool. It had been so long since Sansa had thought about her sister. A year ago, she hated just looking at her, because she could only think of her precious Joffrey. All because Arya was different, because Arya wanted to run in the fields, because she made friends with everyone, because she did everything that Mother and Septa Mordane said a proper woman should not do. Arya was everything that Sansa wasn’t, and all Sansa had wished was that she could have a proper sister.

Now she wished that Arya was with her. Jon believed that there was still a chance for Arya to have escaped King’s Landing…but Sansa knew there was no chance. No chance, no hope, just a desperate prayer from the brother who loved her. “You’re dead.” The admission came out in a choked voice. She looked upon the bronze image of the harpy, her face stern and unloving, and asked, “Why?”

If Sansa expected a response from the goddess of Ghis, she would be disappointed. All she heard was the fluttering of the leaves, and the growl of the monstrous cat in his cage.

“I’m sorry, Arya. When I’m home again, I’ll go to the godswood and pray for your forgiveness.” Would Arya even hear her? Did the dead have ears in the weirwood trees?

She rose up from the fountain, water trickling down her neck. After she washed her feet clean, she looked around the garden. The chorus of monkeys filled the air, their howls piercing through the silence. _There has to be people on the other side_. That…could not be wise.

But Sansa could not go back. The sellswords of the Cat had made that part of the estate their domain. The blood that stained the tapestries was proof enough of that. To tread paths already traveled was death. But to go forward…

She had no choice. Sansa stepped away from the fountain, leaving the howling monkeys to their trees and the monstrous cat in its cage. The garden seemed to go on forever. It reminded her of the hedge maze that spiraled around the Red Keep, where every path led to another flowerbed or trickling stream. Sansa had explored that garden with Jeyne, marveling at all the beautiful sights until their toes were sore and their lungs ached from giggling so much...but here, she was alone.

The blades of grass could reach as tall as her, and often she had to brush them away to clear her path. She could see pillars rise above them in the distance. Apprehension weighed down on her as she took her next step. She expected her toes to sink once more into the soft dirt, but instead she felt the polished stone of marble steps.

As Sansa looked around her, a breeze swept by. The tattered hem of her dress brushed against her leg. For all of a breath, it was quiet. The floor reflected everything, but Sansa saw no blood, no sign of death and destruction. Could she dare to hope? _Did the Cats not reach this far?_ She had lingered long in that garden…that should have allowed the sellswords to have caught up. But perhaps Jon had reached the bloodsworne. Perhaps the estate of Hrasher had pushed the sellswords out. Maybe Bloodbeard was dead.

_Maybe I am a little girl back in Winterfell, and everything is like it is in the songs._

The quiet was shattered by the sound of bootsteps. Sansa felt her heart lurch into  her throat. She twisted her head, red strands dropping against her face, and she stared. And the men with colored hair and swords that dripped with blood stared back.

The world became a blur as Sansa ran. She twisted on her heels and ran into the garden. Dirt was kicked up into the air, and she felt the dirt dig into her bare heels. Sansa didn’t care. The men shouted and chased after her. She rushed through the grass. A monkey howled, a mile away, right in her ear, and the growls of the caged cats surrounded her.

She dared not look back. If they were on her, Sansa would lose all hope. _Keep running. Just run. Don’t stop. Fall into the ocean if you have to. Just run._ It was easy to get lost in the gardens. Sansa just needed to run, twist her direction, lose the sellswords.

After she rushed through a bush, the branches scratching against her face, she came upon the bronze harpy. _No. I was not supposed to be here._ She wanted to lose the sellswords. If she had wound up back at the fountain…

Grass crunched beneath a boot. Sansa turned and saw the Cat with the green hair emerge from behind the bush. She ran, her toes slipping on the ground, falling, roughly caught, her wrists grabbed by fierce hands. “Got her.” The man had pale flesh, and his hair a pale silver. But there was no bold violet of Valyria in his eyes; only a sickening green that filled Sansa with fear.

“Let’s put an end to her,” spoke the green-haired Tyroshi. “Catch up with Gorbald and the rest.”

The pale man’s hand trailed over Sansa’s cheek. He brought her close to his chest, and she could smell blood on his breath. Fear numbed her all over. “Not just yet. Look at her.” Then she felt his hand trail down her, further, further. _No._ “We could enjoy her for a time, yeah.” Sansa wanted to retch. All she could focus on was the apple in the man’s throat.

The man pushed her onto the ground. Sansa felt the hairpin ride down her sleeve. It pricked along her wrist. The Lyseni grabbed her legs, and spread them. “Don’t struggle,” he demanded as she struggled, kicking at him, doing his best to force her open.

The Lyseni drew close, a hand reached into his trousers, wiggling his worm free. Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. She felt the pin tumble into her palm. Sansa squeezed it between her fingers. _A Stark. A Stark._

The head drew close, and Sansa struck out, as fast as a snake. The pin plunged into the man’s throat, right in his apple. He gasped out as blood spurted onto Sansa’s face. The Tyroshi yelled as he rushed for his fellow swordsman, and Sansa crawled away. Her heart beat like a drum against her chest. She heard steel scrape against stone. She rose…but then a boot pinned her back onto the ground. The sword sang into the air, a piercing howl. Sansa felt tears drip down her cheeks, and her fingers shook as they dug into the earth.

She would die, she knew it, right in the garden of Hrasher. _I came for Jon, and I died._ Would her bones reach Winterfell? Would Robb and Mother know what happened to her? She sucked in a breath. _I am a Stark. I won’t cry. I won’t beg._

She buried her face in the dirt, waiting for the sword to give her the red kiss. But instead of tasting the sharp blade at her throat, she heard a monstrous step, echoing in the earth. “ _NO!”_ All of the weight came off her in an instant, and Sansa gasped out a breath. She twisted her face, and looked.

The largest man she had ever seen had carved his sword into the shoulder of the Tyroshi. Sansa felt the hot hiss of blood stain half her face. Sansa felt the sting of it in her eyes. For a moment, all she could do was shudder. Her lips quivered, and she wanted to cry out, but the words were lost in her throat, caught up, gurgled, and only a whimper escaped her.

The Tyroshi crumpled to the floor, red streaks slipping down his chin. The giant pulled the blade from his shoulder with a gruesome crunch, bone scraping against the steel. Sansa felt her teeth chatter inside her mouth. Fearfully, she turned and watched as the monster moved toward the Lyseni. He was crawling in the dirt, and Sansa could see the bloody trail he left behind. The giant gripped the man’s face in his skull, and pressed him into the ground. His skull let out a vile noise that scratched through the air as it cracked and fell apart.

Sansa had twisted onto her back, and all she could do was shake. The giant turned, and she saw the ugly strands of white hair that crowned his head, and his bad eye that bulged from his face. “Sansa?” Her name sounded little more than a gurgle coming from his twisted lips. “Sansa Stark?”

She knew his name. She saw his face. “Arekor?”

“Jon Snow sent me. The others were supposed to find you but…I saw you flee into the garden. We must go to him.”

Sansa let out a cry. “Jon is alive?”

“He is. And he is hunting Bloodbeard. Come, quickly.” He offered his hand, the one that was calloused and swollen with muscle and strength and power. It was almost gentle as he pulled her up.

 

**A WOLF  
**

 

The sword crunched into the man’s shoulder. A dark and grisly scar crescented around his neck. Some lucky god had smiled upon him one day, to save him from the hanging tree. It did not save him from Jon’s sword. His blue eyes trembled, Jon forced his sword free,  and the man spurted out blood.

Alyxqo and Qalentos were making good work of the Cats, shouting and laughing as they held off the arakhs and curved swords with their spears.  Jon heard the shriek of a bolt from a crossbow slice through the air. He felt the wind slice across his cheek, and heard the thud of the bolt breaking into hardened leather. Jon turned; Alyxqo had fallen, and half of a bolt was sticking out of his shield.

He was covered in blood, but Jon could not tell if it was the blood of their foes, or the Summer Islander’s. Qalentos was already attending to him, while Jon laid his eyes on the sole Cat. His hair was almost gold, but his face thin, and his bony fingers trembled under the weight of his crossbow.

The Cat dropped his weapon and ran.

Ser Barristan came from around the pillar and threw all his weight into him, pinning him to the ground. Jon quickly made his approach. “Don’t kill him yet. We need words.”

“I know.” Ser Barristan pressed his knee into the man’s face. “Be honest and you will yet live.”

 _Not likely._ But Jon didn’t mention that. “Where is Bloodbeard?”

“I don’t know! You killed the captain! Tamries would have known.”

Ser Barristan frowned. “He could be telling the truth.”

“No,” Jon said. “He is lying.” Jon grabbed the man’s right hand, and wiggled out his pointing finger. It was long and willowy, like a chicken bone. Jon had snapped plenty of chicken bones in his day. He bent the finger back.

And the man let out a howl. His cheeks went as red as a blood bruise, and his eyes flowed with water and desperation. “Please! I don’t know! I—” The finger cracked, and his voice crumbled.

Jon bent close, so the Cat could more clearly see the iron determination in his eyes. “I will ask again. Where is Bloodbeard?”

A line of spittle was drawn from his lips onto the floor. His eyes were wide and full of fear. “I…I…” Jon feared he may need to break another finger. He doubted the man would hold for three broken fingers, but that was time he did not wish to waste. _Perhaps a knife would be best_. He did loot a dagger off another Cat, one with a leather nose. Jon made sure that the Cat saw how he was reaching for the dagger that was tucked behind his belt. “Wait!” he quivered. “I don’t know where Bloodbeard is.”

Ser Barristan was not moved. “You told us as much.”

“But I know where we were supposed to meet up! Bloodbeard wanted you captured and brought to him on the floor below.”

“Gratitude.” Then Jon took out his dagger and tore the man’s neck open from ear to ear. The man gave out a few final spurting gasps of life before the blood pooled around his neck. Ser Barristan did not look like he approved. “That man surely watched as Bloodbeard attempted to kill Daenerys. Is that not considered high treason?”

“It is,” the knight admitted.

“And the price of treason is death. Besides, I would not have him trailing us.” Jon wiped the dagger on the back of the dead man and turned towards the Twin Spears. “Qalentos! Alyxqo! Do we need to say funeral rites?”

Alyxqo gave out a huff. “Worm a dagger up your ass, Andal. That was my favorite buckler!”

“No it wasn’t,” insisted his lover. “Your favorite buckler has a nick right on the edge. And this one is still good.” Alyxqo muttered something so low that only Qalentos could hear, and he let out a laugh.

Jon heard Yarkaz pull an axe free from a skull. “Enough talking, the both of you. You got words out of that sellsword?”

“A few,” Jon admitted. “Bloodbeard is waiting for me.”

The Titan narrowed his gaze. “Perhaps we should deliver you, then.”

Ser Barristan stood between Yarkaz and Jon. “That will do no good,” the knight said. “And you know that, bloodsworne. This only ends with the leader of the Cats dead at our feet.”

“Aye,” the man murmured under his breath, “that I do. But first we secure the Master. Alezek vo Hrasher shall not perish. But once this is all done…you and I shall have words, Andal.”

“As you are so quick to remind me, Titan.” Jon chewed his lip. “Alezek and the Alashant should have reached here by now.” It was all chaos once Bloodbeard tore down that door. Jon didn’t know how he had lost Sansa, but the Alashant had all but lifted Alezek away from them. It was him and Ser Barristan, running and fleeing down the halls, turning corners, rushing through whatever doors they could find, holding off whomever they could with just their hands.

It was easier once Ser Barristan managed to steal a sword, before he pushed the Cat off a balcony. And then, once Jon took a curved blade from a newly made corpse…

Well, it always would be easiest to kill a man with a sword in hand. No-Eyes could talk all he pleased about knowing your form, but there was a reason that empires were built with swords and dragonfire. They did not go looking for Bloodbeard’s sellswords, but he and Ser Barristan did not hesitate to carve their way to where the bloodsworne lived and trained and bled.

Bloodbeard must have thought that Jon would be there, or perhaps some of his men had gotten lost. Regardless, Yarkaz was standing in the guts of a Cat when Jon found him in the heart of the training yard. “Andal.” His voice was a raspy growl, and his eyes showed he was none too pleased to see Jon. “Where is the Master?”

Horeah and Saethor were the only ones that looked ready to fight. Their fingers had reached for their weapons. Jon did not know what he did to earn their loyalty, but he would not see them die for his sake. “Alive. We were separated.”

 “And who is the one behind this?” asked Yarkaz.

“Bloodbeard. You remember him. Mercenary commander, uglier than death, desired nothing more than my heart on a plate.”

Qalentos spat on the ground. “What kind of name is _Bloodbeard_? If he wants Jon, we need only wait.”

“You’re right. Cover me in grease and no doubt Bloodbeard’s hounds will come. But if we wait here, then what of the Alashant and your master? Their lives will be forfeit.”

The Titan had folded his arms across his chest. “Bloodbeard. The one that wants your head. That explains it. But why are you still here, Andal? You could have fled. You and this…”

The knight took a protective step in front of Jon. “I am Ser Barristan Selmy. I am a knight. You cannot hide here. The Cats will come.”

“Then we will kill them,” Alasro said. “Not like we haven’t done plenty of that already.”

“And what of after?” asked Haethor. He leaned on his axe, and both his weapon and his face were smeared in blood. “Do you think the Good Masters will believe us when we say it was a company of sellswords that killed Master Alezek?”

Alasro frowned at that. “Master Alezek could be dead already.”

“No!” Yarkaz’s voice boomed like a thunderclap. If anyone had thought to speak, the Titan’s roar silenced them. “We will not forsake him to death. We are bloodsworne; that still holds some meaning. But Andal,” he said, looking at Jon with a stern gaze, “after this, we will have words.”

And Jon began to wonder just what Yarkaz had in mind, as they carved their way through the halls of the manse. The time for deceit was over, as was the idea that Arekor had no place among them. When Jon passed an axe to Arekor, Alasro let out a laugh. “What are you doing, Andal? This one has no place among us.”

“He can fight. That means he does have a place.”

The Lyseni gave out a snort. “He better prove it then. If he needs saving, you won’t see us lifting a hair for your pet.”

“Andal,” Arekor had said after Alasro stomped off. “You don’t…he’s right.”

“Is he? This isn’t the blood pits, but you wanted me to train you, to make you a warrior. We had an agreement. I train you, and you fight for me when the time comes?”

His monstrous brow twisted at that. “That wasn’t our deal.”

“Wasn’t it?” Jon slipped out an amused grin. “I thought it was. Our lives are in danger. Stand and fight, Arekor. Prove to them that I am no fool. Am I a fool, Arekor?”

There was doubt in his eyes, but it melted away. What Jon saw then he could only describe as something fierce. “No, Andal. You are no fool.”

It had been too long since Jon had last seen Arekor. It was right before a crossbow bolt had nearly taken Jon in the face. After he rose up from the ground, his ears burning with hot blood, Arekor was gone. There had been no time to look for him. No time to slow. _Sansa needs to be found._ Jon would never forgive himself if Sansa came to any harm.

Jon heard the shattering of bones. Horeah’s face was covered in sweat and blood, and his dark hair glistened under the sun. Jon could see shards of bone on the blade of his axe. “These are meant to be mercenaries? Must be damn cheap ones.”

“We are bloodsworne,” Yarkaz said. He had discarded his axe, putting more favor in an arakh. He gave it a few swings, feeling the weight of it. “I would be shocked if they managed to put up much of a resistance. Where is Bloodbeard?”

“Below,” Jon said. “Probably in the main hall.” _Where Iorwen was murdered._

Yarkaz understood the implication. “He is baiting you into a trap, Andal. We will not fall into it. Where is that Qohorik?” Yarkaz had sent him to scout down another wing, while the rest of them took one hall together. The Cats they found did not last long.

“He will find us,” Jon said. “Saethor is not one to—”

Steps echoed down the hall. Satheor rushed towards him, his cheeks flushed. Jon could not see any blood on the tip of his spear, but he obviously came to them in a hurry. “Are the Cats coming?” Barristan Selmy asked.

“No,” Saethor said, shaking his head. “I found the Master.” He hesitated. “You should come with me. Gather the others.”

A trail of blood led them to Alezek vo Hrasher. His head was tucked into the lap of the Alashant, who kept tucking strands of hair behind his ear. All life had gone out of Alezek’s eyes. The dead surrounded them, half a dozen of Bloodbeard’s men that had meant to end the lives of the two men. There was a thick cut on his chest, but the Alashant gave no heed to it. Jon almost thought he did not notice their approach. “He is gone.” His voice was a thin rasp.

Yarkaz crouched down. “Marsoltor, what happened?” All hardness had left him. Jon could have sworn that his voice trembled as he asked.

The Alashant’s eyes were wet, but no tears fell. Jon had never seen the man so uncertain. “A bolt from a crossbow. I did what I could. None survived. I thought if we had at least reached…” He closed his eyes, and Jon saw a tear trail down his black cheek. His eyes were wet gold. “It doesn’t matter now. Alezek of the house of Hrasher has left us.”

“The Mother of Harpies will welcome him,” Yarkaz said in a solemn tone. “But, as for us, we should pray to the Conciliator of Blades. He must not go unavenged.”

“Yes,” he said, and his golden eyes became hot. “And perhaps we should start with the Andals.” He rose to his feet, a bleeding sword in his hand. Ser Barristan reached for his at once. “Bloodbeard came for him! If not for this Jon _Snow_ , none of this would have happened.”

“ _Marsoltor!”_ Yarkaz placed a hand on his chest. “In all the years I have known you, as battle brother, as teacher and friend, you have never been hot headed. Calm and collected, to think before taking action. Don’t ruin that reputation. The Master _knew_ that Bloodbeard was after Jon. He never hid his history with the mercenary. And who would guess he would be so bloodthirsty as to launch an attack on a manse of a master?

“You want vengeance. You will have it. But carving out Jon’s heart will not give it to you. Take it from the man that actually committed the deed. Avenge the man you knew since he was but a boy by ending the life of Bloodbeard. Not this…Jon Snow.”

The eyes of the Alashant were gold enflamed. “It was Bloodbeard that killed him. He wanted everyone in this house dead, not just Jon Snow.” His breath broke out in a shudder. “I will not leave him here for the dogs.”

“No,” Yarkaz said softly, “of course not. Is there a place—”

“Just beyond. A bedchamber, meant for guests and patrons.” He crouched down, and nestled Alezek’s head against the curve of one arm, and softly brought up his legs with the other. The master’s arm dangled. _He almost looks half a babe. He almost looks at peace._ With care, the Alashant rose and left them. Yarkaz opened the door, and he closed it behind the Alashant after he passed through.

“We will afford him this moment,” the Titan decided.

“We can’t afford that,” Ser Barristan insisted. “The Cats could be upon us even now. We need to—”

“We will give him this moment!” Yarkaz did not turn to face them. “If you wish to leave, Andal, you are welcome to do so. But we bloodsworne will wait.”

Ser Barristan shuffled his feet. “Very well. We should at least set up something of a perimeter. Jon—”

He nodded. “Yes. Saethor, keep watch over that balcony. If you see anything, give a holler.” Saethor gave a quick nod, grabbed his spear and made a quick pace towards the balcony. He would be able to see the gardens from there. If any Cats thought of approaching them, Saethor’s quick eyes would spot them first. And he was a quick and nimble fighter; any bolts shot at him would likely miss.

Barristan Selmy took Jon aside. “You have a rare talent for this.” Jon was not so certain at what he meant. “The ones with the axe and the spear—”

“Horeah and Saethor.”

“Horeah and Saethor,” he said, “they respect you. And you know where to place a man, and if they should be the point of the spear. Has any of this come from your lord father?”

Jon gave a nod. “He would teach me and Robb, tell us how to lead a castle, how to earn the respect of the men under our charge. Horeah and Saethor follow me because they know me. I’m not a stranger to them. My father…he would tell us to not let our men die for a stranger.”

“That is good advice. Prince Rhaegar was much the same. He wanted to know his people. The Prince never cared for staying in the Red Keep. Men believed in him, and were willing to die for him.”

“And did the fact that my Aunt Lyanna was kidnapped mean nothing to these men?” Jon felt rage burning through him. “He raped her. What does that say of the Prince?”

“That was not his way, Jon Snow. You did not know him.”

Jon forced himself to take in a deep breath. _He protected Sansa. Ser Barristan is not my enemy._  “I know my aunt is dead because of him. That is enough for me.” He stepped away from the knight. The idea that any man would want to defend Rhaegar Targaryen was beyond him. Daenerys did…but she had been lied to her entire life. She had not lived in Westeros. _The taint of the Mad King must run deep, if even Ser Barristan would spread those lies._ The Tourney at Harrenhal was the end of the Targaryens. They brought it upon themselves.

And yet, Jon knew what Daenerys would aspire for next. _Ships, to bring us home. With an army._ Robb was fighting for the North, while the Baratheons and the Lannisters were tearing the kingdom apart. _Joffrey Baratheon has no right to be king, not after how he killed Father._ Jon imagined tearing the Baratheon prince down with a bloody sword; he smiled at the thought. _But Joffrey has a younger brother besides, and even King Robert had his brothers. Robert may have betrayed Father, but could the same be said of Stannis?_

Daenerys promised to put a crown on his head, but what right does a bastard have to be king, when there was still the Baratheon lineage to consider? Who would ever desire to kneel before a bastard? _They would name me Daemon Blackfyre come again. Or perhaps Aegor Bittersteel._ Jon never wanted to be like either of those men. He had always played at being Aemon the Dragonknight, while Robb would proclaim that he was Daeron the Young Dragon.

Robb…what would his brother say? “Robb, I am your brother, loyal and true, but I have made a bed with the last Targaryen princess and created a son with her.” Lady Catelyn would no doubt be glad that all her suspicions had proven true. Would bringing Sansa safely home to the gray walls of Winterfell prove his worth? He would see her there regardless, but he must secure peace. _I would see Dany safe, a garden for our son to play in and grow strong. A strong name for him. Not a Snow, not a Rivers or a Waters._ A Targaryen name, a true name.

Was that any better? They would call Daenerys the Mad King’s Daughter, and their children would be called the scions of a bastard. Dany kept on saying that all would be made right when she was queen, but that would not change in a day. Nor in a year, Jon suspected. Her father and her brother had corrupted the Targaryen name, and the roots went deep.

 _We should remain in Essos._ “There are no bastards in Essos,” Doreah had told him. His children would not be hated for being the sons of a bastard, and what did the Essosi care for what the Targaryens did? Daenerys said she would free the Unsullied, let them follow her by their choice. They could be the most fearsome mercenary company on the continent. Ser Barristan said he had a talent for command. Jon could command such a legion, and the wealth could give Daenerys and their children happiness for all their days.

 _And what of your father?_ a voice whispered. When Jon closed his eyes, he could only see the head of Lord Eddard Stark hanging from the spikes of the Red Keep. His blood went hot. The Lannisters needed to pay. They _deserved_ the fire and blood that Daenerys promised. Why should they enjoy all the power the Iron Throne offered after how they murdered Father? _They said that Robert Baratheon did not flinch from the sight of the ruined corpses of Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen._ Did he smile at the sight? Did he call them dragonspawn? Jon wondered how anyone could think such a man deserved to be king. How could Father?

A familiar voice pulled Jon away. “Jon!” He twisted like an eel, and he saw her; Sansa’s dress was in bloody tatters at the hem, and her styled hair was hanging down her neck in wet and sloppy strings. But she was alive, and Jon found himself running toward her. She wrapped herself around his neck, and he smelled all the sweat, perfume and blood that clung to her skin. “Sansa,” he breathed into her, “thank the gods.”

“I have Arekor to thank,” she said, when Jon finally put her down.

Jon blinked. “Arekor?” Then he heard the screeching of an axe being dragged across the floor. Arekor was caked in blood, making his monstrous figure even more so, but the man looked alive and well.

“I found your sister for you, Andal.” The man smiled. Jon was not certain he had ever seen the man smile. His teeth were all giant blocks, and his lips twisted and deformed, but there was a glow in his eyes. “You should keep better watch over her.” _And he’s making a joke at my expense._

Alasro was leaning against the wall, and he looked at Arekor with shock. “Arekor,” he said lightly, “you look like you slaughtered your way through half of Astapor.”

“Not all of Astapor.” His words slurred together, but they rang with confidence. “Just four Cats.”

“Four less we need to deal with,” Ser Barristan said. “Lady Sansa, I am glad you are well. Forgive me, we should have—”

Sansa shook her head. “It was all chaos, Ser. I could not demand the impossible from you. I am alive and well. We need to get out.”

Jon turned from her, toward the room. The Alashant still had not stepped out. “Alashant?” he called out. “Alashant?”

Yarkaz stepped in front of Jon. “Marsoltor?”

Jon stepped carefully behind the Titan. A silence had taken hold over them, and Jon could feel the beats of his heart growing with every moment. He had a thought to keep Sansa away, but she was a step behind them. Horeah pushed on the door, and the sound of the wood groaning against the polished frame may well have been as loud as the summer storms that would hammer against Winterfell.

Yarkaz was silent. Jon stepped forth, and he saw the blood. It trailed from the body of Alezek, a coarse and crimson streak that went all the way onto the bed, and soaked into the cushions. His hands were arranged over his chest, the fingers tightened around the hilt of the Alashant’s sword. Laying against the bed was Marsoltor. The knife was sharp and true; it had taken only one swift strike for him to slice through his own throat. His blood had flowed down his chest. His dead eyes were wide, and white.

 

**THE BUTCHER OF AKLAGAN**

 

It was taking too fucking long. He had sent out Tamries, Gorbald and Hargo with ten men to hunt down the Andal. Paraszys had promised him that the Hrasher son would sell him Jon Snow. “The Hrashers are, like all blooded houses, little better than the slaves they breed and send to the slaughter. Give them the allure of gold, and they will rush to it like a bloodhound for the kill.” Damn Paraszys sol Nierhols and all of his noble airs. He didn’t know shit. Astapor has disappointed him time and time again. Jon Snow was meant to die in the Abyss, but that never happened. He should have died in the blood pits, but that had been refused him as well. The deal with the Hrasher family was the last straw. He should have put a blade in the Andal’s gut a moon ago. _Expect a problem to be solved, do it yourself. With your own bloody sword._

His sister was a beautiful thing. If she managed to survive, perhaps he would keep her. She would sell for a pretty price in the sighing halls of Yunkai, but Bloodbeard would rather not. He deserved something after all the hells the Andal had put him through.

One of the slaves moaned and wept as she was taken. It was the Dothraki named Ajorgo that was filling the girl. He was just about out of sight as he plowed the girl, but gods, Bloodbeard could hear him clear as day. The Dothraki were good fighters, but they were like dogs in heat when it came to women. Fucked just like them, now that Bloodbeard thought on it.

Plenty of the slaves were being plowed. His ear was ringing with the sound of slaves being taken and wine casks being thrown onto the floor. The gathering hall was pink with wine and red with blood. He often had to step over corpses.

It was taking too long. He didn’t like it. “Aonto,” he barked. The Lyseni was a man he could trust. If there was one man that Bloodbeard would consider his second, it would be him. “Gather up those that aren’t drunk or balls deep in some cunt. Hell, maybe pull them out. I don’t care how wet their cocks are. They are taking too long.”

“I know,” he said. The man was cleaning his knife with an oily rag. “I already sent Kael with six others.”

“He’s one of our best scouts.”

“I know. That’s why I sent him. If something has gone wrong, we’ll know.”

That was good thinking. But Bloodbeard did not like at all that they were in this place in the first place. How did they even lose the Andal? He saw him, plain as day. Bloodbeard remembered the hot breath that roared up in his throat. He should have been able to shear through Jon Snow. How can you lose prey like that?

The damned corridors were too winding, too many passageways, and Jon Snow was too quick by far. The Westerosi must have had an ancestor that fucked a hare. No one had any business being that quick. Even his sister in a bloody dress got lost in the manse.

He was told that Alezek vo Hrasher was brought low. That meant less than nothing to Bloodbeard. He didn’t want the master. He wanted Jon Snow’s head. It should have been done and over with by now. They had been complacent for too long, marched under Khal Drogo without any blood spilled, dancing around Paraszys’ words for too many months. Waiting, waiting, and they got soft for it.

Bloodbeard leaned against the pillar. It was once fitted with drapes, bright gold and indigo to contrast against the pink stone, but those drapes were now in ruined tatters. For a moment he relaxed, and his memory wandered back to Aklagan.

It was during another of those wars between the Three Whores. Tyrosh had unleashed the Cats upon the Disputed Lands, and Bloodbeard was not going to turn away good Tyroshi gold. Rend one caravan to ruin, set the fields of a nearby village to flame, do whatever it took make the Lyseni bleed.

And the Company of the Cat made them bleed.

Aklagan was a tiny seaside town. The Seashell Harbor it was called, because their shorelines looked like a seashell, or some nonsense like that. He was certain that it was given a new name, after it was set to the torch. A Myrish serjeant was hiding in the hills, one who knew where a cache of treasures stolen from Tyrosh was buried. And there was no doubt that the people of the Seashell Harbor knew precisely where the serjeant was hiding.

One by one, Bloodbeard dragged them out of their hovels, and one by one, he questioned them. And one by one, they refused all questions, or they answered with lies and begged for their lives. Bloodbeard knew a lie when he heard one, and they all lied, every single one of them, even as the Cats brought out the knives and the hammers. He was told once that the Lord of Light considered a sacrifice by fire the holiest of offerings. How blessed was the offering when it was one of the Lord’s red priests? Bloodbeard had often thought on that after they locked the priest inside his temple and set it aflame.

By the end of it, the Seashell Harbor was emptied of all life, and it turned out that the Myrish serjeant had cracked his head open a month before on the slopes of a cliff just a day’s ride out of town. If nothing else, it earned Bloodbeard a name. “The Butcher of Aklagan,” they called him. Bloodbeard imagined all the fat archons and pasty magisters would hanker to purchase his company. But they all rejected him “for ruthlessness” and he was forced eastwards.

The east was the only place he could find employment.  It used to be that he could gather soured remnants from whatever wars the Free Cities had to replenish his ranks, but that all ended after Aklagan. His name attracted the vagabonds and drifters of Essos. Men and women with a more “brutal” appetite.

The Company went further east after that. The Free Cities felt little attraction to him after he earned his title. They were willing to kill each other, but only in civilized decorum. Why would it matter _how_ a man died, just so long as his life was snuffed out? A man with his eyes torn out will give you an honest answer every time.

That was just him being honest with the world. And that honesty drove him ever eastwards, into the all-embracing hands of Khal Drogo. Right onto Jon Snow. The howling hole where his ear used to be was the price that Bloodbeard paid for playing with his food.  _I have learned my lesson well. If Jon Snow is brought to me, I will stick him and be done with it._  

He felt the weight of the apple in his hand. It was as green as summer grass. He ripped into it, the sour juices flowing into his beard. The apple crunched beneath his teeth. Only after the flavor had washed down his gullet did it occur to him; the moaning had ceased. He turned around, looking for the slave that Ajorgo was fucking. Both slave and Dothraki were gone.

“Aonto. Aonto!” The Lyseni turned, green eyes narrowed and focused. “Any of these cunts that aren’t drunk and can fight, get them up. _Now_!”

The feasting of the Cats was drowned beneath the roar. The bloodsworne came from around the corners, behind the pillars, and down the spiraling stairs. They ripped through the shallow ponds, turned red with the blood of slaves. Bloodbeard heard the howling of a bolt slice through the air, and it went into the chest of a man that had no brands on his arms.

Bloodbeard gripped the hilt of the sword, the one with the wolf engraved into the blade. He stole it from the Andal, after they lit up the leathery canvas of the tent where the dragon bitch was giving birth. She had forgotten all about her bastard. She was focused on the Unsullied and the spears that would win back her throne. But Bloodbeard never forgot about Jon Snow.

He banged his fist against his chest. “ _ANDAL!”_ A slave sought to interrupt him, meant to cut him down. Some baby flesh without any brand on his arm. It took one swipe to cut half of his neck from his shoulder. “ _ANDAL!”_ The name came out in a roar that rose above the dance of steel and the cries of the dying. “I have something for you!” He shook the blade. “Come and find me!”

And just like a moth to a flame, he appeared. His long hair was cropped, and his beard had been shaved away. But he would know the iron eyes anywhere. Jon Snow appeared, a bleeding sword in his hand. His eyes found Bloodbeard, and Bloodbeard gazed on him.

Another worthless slave came upon him, a spear in his hand. He was clumsy. A monkey could have avoided the jab. He carved a mighty line down the chest, and sent the corpse sprawling to the ground. He stepped over the bloody pools.

Then he saw Aonto. His face had taken the full impact of an axe, and his skull was busted open like a rotten fruit. One of his men had his skull cracked open by a mace, another; his lung pierced by the point of a spear, a third; his belly ripped open and his guts spilled onto the floor. All around him men were being cut down, screaming and dying, their last gasps full of the blood flooding their lungs.

A man with a sword and no brand came up to him. His eyes were blue and soft. His sword came upon Bloodbeard in a wide arc. He raised his blade to meet, and the steel screeched against each other. But Bloodbeard had all the strength, and with a simple shove, the slave went tumbling. Once Bloodbeard pierced his chest with the sword, and the slave’s blue eyes went wide and pale, the farce was done.

“No.” He looked around, and saw. They encircled him in a cage of spears, swords, nets and bludgeons. Some of them had the brand on their arms, but the rest had no marks. House slaves, perhaps, or men that were almost bloodsworne, who could have earned the brand if the Hrasher boy had not refused him.

Bloodbeard looked into their eyes, circling, spinning, and he saw the lives they could have had if he had not taken it away from them. “No,” he said in refusal. “No, no.” He would not be refused _his_ wrath. His bloody justice would not be denied. “Where is the Andal! JON SNOW! _JON! SNOW!”_

“I’m right here.” The bastard stepped through the circle. He was caked in splatters of blood. One side of him was all red, the other untouched and pink and soft. _That’s all he is. A soft man that stole more than he earned._ “Were you looking for me, Bloodbeard?”

“You want me, Andal. I tried to kill your woman. I almost took your son from you. You don’t need these men to do the job for you.”

The Andal stepped into the circle. His crude sword was almost dangling along the floor. “You are right.” His grey eyes were confident. “I don’t need my brothers to kill you. We both know that I can kill you all by myself.”

Bloodbeard could feel the stare from a hundred eyes that dug into his back. “Then come on.” He gripped the sword in his hand. “Come and kill me.”

Jon Snow narrowed his gaze on the sword. “That does not belong to you.” Bloodbeard could see the man’s resolve start to break, his iron mask crumbling to pieces. He always knew when to strike: when the knife was hot and steaming.

“This sword?” Bloodbeard gave it a casual examination, as if it wasn’t the blade that he had stolen from the Westerosi so many moons ago. “A fine weapon. I killed plenty of bastards with it.” That was a lie; Paraszys had him waiting on his haunches, not doing much of anything. But let the boy think that his precious blade was made into a tool for murder.

Bloodbeard thought that Jon Snow would lunge for him then. Fury was overcoming him, he knew it. Men of honor were so easily played. But he just stood his ground. “Your ear.”

“What?”

“Your ear.” He tapped the side of his face. “I don’t need to prove anything. Not to myself, not to you. I would have killed you if your men didn’t take me from behind.”

Bloodbeard clenched his fist. “A weak excuse. Come and kill me. Prove it.”

The Andal smiled. “I don’t think so.” Bloodbeard twisted in his steps, and saw them. The slaves grew tighter around him, the tips of their blades glimmering. Bloodbeard let out a roar, “ _No! You are mine!”_ He raised the sword and took a bold step towards him. But the Andal did not move, and then Bloodbeard felt the crack of the whip, the thunder crackling in his ears, and his wrists were on fire before he was pulled onto the floor.

He roared again, and he struggled to his feet. With his free hand he pushed another out of the way, and when a boy with gold hair approached, he made his face bloody. Jon Snow did not move, but all of the slaves and the bloodsworne surrounded him, tighter and tighter. “I’ll kill you” His words ripped through his throat. “I’ll—”

Then he felt the strike against his head, the bells chimed inside his skull, and all he could see was black, and the crouching form of Jon Snow beyond.

 

**THE WOLFGUARD**

 

The Myrman aimed his crossbow and fired. The bolt tore through the air, and found its place in an Astapori’s neck. His legs collapsed beneath him, his fingers grasping for the hole in his neck. Jory heard the man’s death gurgles from down the hall. He fell to the ground, his blood turning the golden tiles red.

One among many. Many of the masters were in the theatre, enjoying the opera. The rest were put to sword and bolt before the Windblown and Second Sons barricaded the doors. A corpse hung over the railing, another was pierced by a shattered glass wall, and dozens more filled the steps.

“You think they heard all that?” Denzo D’han planted his fists into his sides. “Suppose it wouldn’t matter.” Jory agreed. The sellswords had found steel rods to fit through the door handles. Jory could hear the masters from the other side. A hundred voices were crying out. Begging, pleading, screaming.

Fire was climbing up the walls now, and smoke was billowing up at the ceiling. “Come on,” coughed Denzo D’han. “Or do you Second Sons want to join these masters?”

Jory blinked the water from his eyes. Just an hour past, the Auditorium was a thing of beauty. But already Jory could hear the cracking of wood. Dark, black smoke rose up in massive pillars from the basement below. Jory could feel the heat on the back of his neck, and cold strings of sweat coated his back.

Men and women were screaming. Jory did not think he saw any child make their way into the theatre. _No child would want to see an opera._ He could not imagine it. The songs of the opera house had no appeal to a child. No foolish song was sung within the walls of the Auditorium. Only masters would be burned that day, men and women who engaged in slavery.

They left the masters to the fire and smoke. Massive black columns poured out beneath the doors as they made their way onto the streets. The dead littered the ground beneath the wings of the harpies. Talrios Fregar was waiting for them. Jory could see splatters of blood on his shirt. The man was all smiles. “Jory Cassel! What did I tell you? Not today.”

The flames had overwhelmed the Auditorium now. It had been transformed into a swirling ball of flame, black and red twisting against the stone. Jory could hear the tumbling of bricks as the mortar melted away. He could not hear screams. _The fire consumed them all._

“We must move,” Denzo D’han said. “Quickly. Not all the masters were at the opera.”

Talrios Fregar nodded. “I know. Daenerys Targaryen has attracted her fair share.”

“Do you mean to catch her?” Jory fitted his sword into his sheath. “She was why your brother sailed with his fleet.”

The First Sword narrowed his eyes. “ _Slavery_ is why we are here. She means to use enslaved spears to further her own ends? Then we shall treat her as we did them.” He pointed towards the wall of flame that roared behind them. “More kindly, to be certain, but slavery is slavery, Westerosi.”

He was not wrong. To put another man in chains was an abomination. All the gods, from the Seven of the South to the Old Gods of the weirwood trees, had damned the slaver. Only the Drowned God of the Iron Isles encouraged slavery, and that was the god of the Ironborn, so who was surprised? Daenerys was a Targaryen, but she was more Essosi than a daughter of Westeros. In this land, there was the slaver, and there was the enslaved. She would see no different.

But Jon Snow had loved her, and perhaps they had even made a child together. Could Jon Snow have loved a slaver? Jory remembered Jon Snow, the bastard that knew his place, but was always loyal, kind and dutiful. He could not see Jon Snow, or any of Eddard Stark’s kin, finding love with someone that condoned slavery.

“She is of Westeros.” The words seemed weak on his tongue. “She would not engage in slavery. She would not trade a dragon for slaves. It’s an army she wants. She knows not of you and your brother.”

Tormo Fregar smiled still, but Jory found that all mirth had fled from his eyes. “Slavery is slavery, Jory Cassel. And she will know of us soon enough.”

They fled from the fires. The flames were content to feed on the masters, but the choking smoke was far more gluttonous. It was mid day, but the sky was already dark...and red. The fires had consumed the Auditorium, and now the sky was red with the proof of it.

If there were Seven Hells, Jory felt they had been unleashed.

They had swords and spears and crossbows, but the slave soldiers and their masters marched right past. The Astapori had bigger things to worry about than just some random bystanders. And so long as they didn’t attract any attention to themselves, that is all they would be. Nevermind how they smelled of fire and smoke. That was just a coincidence. They were just running from the flames.

 _By day’s end, the whole of the city will smell like smoke. Between the Braavosi and Daenerys Targaryen, who will be left standing?_ Jon Snow, if the gods were good. If Jory fell to his knees and prayed, would the gods hear? They were separated by oceans and cities, and no weirwoods were planted on the eastern continent. Still, Jory found himself beseeching the gods in silence, that Jon Snow would survive the day.

But for now, there was no rescuing Jon Snow. They had to save themselves. The spears of the city were not coming after them yet, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t. The sooner they were tucked away in an apartment or a hole-in-the-ground somewhere, the better.

Jory just wanted to leave the roaring of the fire behind. There was always an orange glare, just out of sight, reminding him that the fire still lived. _They were slavers. They fed children to lions._ But there was a distaste in his stomach that just would not go away.

 _A warrior fights on the field, not in the shadows. He kills with his sword, not by setting an opera house afire._ When Lord Stark sent him to Essos, it was supposed to be a rescue. How did Jory transform it into an assault on slavery? Lord Stark would have approved…but not if it put his son at risk. _And his grandchild._ If anything happened to either…

Jory couldn’t focus on that. He could not think on that. He hadn’t been there to protect Lord Stark, he couldn’t put that on himself. _If Lord Stark did not send me away, he may still live. But then who would bring his family home?_

They huddled into a cart, and one of the Second Sons whipped the reins. “Away!” And they were. The Auditorium faded from sight, but the flame and smoke grew, higher and mightier, consuming the sky and casting the city in shadow. Everyone coughed once or twice. _The masters burn._ How many of their slaves had met a similar fate, and none mourned their end? Jory found himself smiling, despite it all.

This was justice. It was done in the shadows, and none would know who did the deed, but this was justice. Jory did not look upon any of the masters as they died, but he had walked the city streets. He saw slaves crucified, fat masters raised upon the back of thin slaves, boys forced to kill children so they could survive the wrath of the chain holders.

He did not look into their eyes as they died, but he did not need to. Justice had come to Astapor. Jory smiled.

Alyn looked at him. “Are you alright, ser?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “We’re winning.” His fingers tapped at the edge of the cart, his gloved hand feeling the grooves and splinters. “Bloody madness, but we’re winning.”

“Not yet,” Harwin cautioned. Harwin, every cautious, always thinking, patient. “We still need Jon Snow and his child.”

“And Daenerys.” There was a challenging look in Harwin’s stare. “Lord Stark sent us here to save them all. And no matter what, we will.”

Talrios seemed amused by that. “And what would my brother have to say about that?”

“We will negotiate.”

“There is no negotiating with the Sea Lord. His word is law.” The Braavosi slapped on the ridge of the cart. “We’re here. Out!”

Jory made his way out of the cart. “Here” was an alleyway. As plain and uninspiring of an alleyway that Jory had ever seen, in Astapor or Braavos or King’s Landing. There was a simple wooden door, the planks worn, the paint faded, the hinges worn and discolored. Denzo D’han knocked on the door three times, paused for a breath, and then gave it a fourth knock.

The door whined open, and a man with a mustache that had grown too long past his lips poked his head out. He gave a nod and retreated into the shadows. Talrios followed after him, and Jory followed. Before taking the first step into the structure, he turned his head back. The smoke was mounting over the city, a black dagger aimed at the heavens and the sky. _The fire is growing._

Jory had expected a house of some sort, but instead they were led into a plain room, with nothing in it. Before Jory could ask where they were brought to, the bald man threw a carpet off the floor. As the dust filled Jory’s eyes, he could see the tip of a ladder emerge out of the floor. Right in the heart of the room was a hole, awkwardly carved, leading into an abyss.

Talrios climbed in, without question. Jory knew better than to question the man. He followed. The climb was a short one, thank the gods. It was the darkness that raked at him. There was a single day when Jory had fought at night, during the Greyjoy Rebellion, and being shrouded in nothing but that dark pitch, being able to see nothing in front of him or below, Jory could only smell the tide of the sea, and the fires on the water.

Midway through a heartbeat, his boot touched the solid footing of earth, and Jory had never known a sweeter feeling. Rubbing at his palm, Jory took in his surroundings. There was a chill in the air that almost reminded Jory of Winterfell, and he heard the distant dripping of water. They stood in a tunnel, and they were surrounded by the darkness. The only source of light was the lantern held up by Denzo D’han. “What is this place?”

Beneath the light of the lantern, Talrios smiled. “A tunnel for smugglers. Which makes it perfect for the likes of us.”

“Smugglers?” Jory could hear Alyn descend the last steps of the ladder. “How are we like them? Smugglers hide in the dark.”

 _Hadn’t we, when we put the opera house to flame?_ But Jory kept that to himself. “Of course we are like them,” Talrios said. “They were smugglers of flesh, of men. You think we are the first to rise up against the masters? I was shocked to discover it, but there have been Ghiscari who saw the corruption that ate away at their society, and hoped to purge it, in whatever small way that they could.”

Jory realized what Talrios was saying. “They were bringing the slaves out of the city? Where could they have gone?” The Braavosi shrugged. If any of this had happened, it would have been when the Seven Kingdoms were young, and Aegon the Dragon had freshly sat upon the Iron Throne. “So, where does this tunnel lead?”

The Windblown looked to Jory. “Perhaps, if you were quiet, the answer would come to you.”

 _Perhaps. But I trust you as far as I can throw you, sellsword._ But he could not see a reason why Talrios Fregar would betray him, not now, not when they had achieved victory. So he followed. The shadows stretched out before them, and the light of the lantern seemed such a small thing in comparison. He could see the wooden pillars that held up the rock, and occasionally he felt a plank emerge from the dirt floor. “We think they were markers,” Denzo D’han answered before Jory could ask. “Ways for the runaway slaves to know just how much farther they had to go before the end.”

“And what was at the end?”

Even in the darkness, Jory could see the Windblown shrug. “Death, probably. There’s a reason this was forgotten. There are slaves yet in Astapor.”

But not for much longer, if the Braavosi had anything to do with it.

“So where ends our path?” asked Harwin. “We burnt the masters in the opera house. What do you intend next?”

“Chaos is brewing in the city,” answered Talrios Fregar. “So many of the most prominent Freeborn are now piles of ash. I say that it is a good time to bring a reckoning. But first, we need to regroup.”

“Then why not just take to the streets?” asked Alyn.

Talrios did not turn his head to answer. “Do you want to be on the city streets right now? I wouldn’t, and I am a reckless man. Safer to go underground.”

It was not long after that they reached another ladder. A single look from Talrios told Jory everything he had to know. Once Denzo D’han took his first steps, lantern strapped to his belt, Jory knew what he had to do. He took a breath, cursed himself for being wrapped up in the dealings of the Fregar brothers, and climbed.

The light blinded him sooner than he expected. He heard Denzo knock on the door, and then light was everywhere. For a moment, Jory couldn’t see. He was not going to fall to his death, not here, not now. His eyes wet, he searched for the rung of the ladder, and felt Talrios pull him up to solid ground.

“Not much for ladders, Jory?”

He ignored that. He climbed to his feet, and found himself in another plain room. “I prefer something under my feet.”

“For once, I agree. But we do what we must.”

Harwin groaned as he pulled himself out of the hole. “What’s this? Another smuggler’s den?”

“Yes,” Talrios said, “but, admittedly, one with a better view.” He bounded across the room and opened the moth eaten curtains. Light filled the room, and Jory could see the streams of dust that raced in front of him. The waves of the sea crashed against the harbor of the city, and there was the distant cry of gulls. Jory could taste salt on the tip of his tongue.

“A pretty view,” Jory admitted as he approached. “But little else…” Talrios was still. “Fregar?”

He ignored Jory.

Somehow, there was a spyglass in his hand. “What are you doing with that?”

“I am a Braavosi, son of Westeros.” He peered into the spyglass. “I always carry my home with me.” Jory was silent for a moment. He could feel Denzo D’han’s impatience, and the Second Sons were little better. They glanced left and right, and many were chewing on their lips in a nervous display. Then Talrios laughed. “The gods must truly love us. Or we have magnificent luck, and I should retire as First Sword and become a gambler.”

Denzo D’han was not amused. “Braavosi, what are you on about? I need to be on the move. The Prince—”

“Oh, we will be moving,” he smiled. “But not in retreat. Go to the Tattered Prince, tell him the time is now.”

“Now?”

“Today,” he said firmly. He turned towards Jory. “Daenerys Targaryen shall not flee from us today. Nor shall any other master in Astapor.”

“What did you see?”

“The broken chains, swords of liberation, the watchful Titan above all that sailed beneath the monolith. I saw in the port of Astapor a dozen cogs of war, and galleys, scorpions and catapults on war decks. The Sealord has arrived at Astapor. My brother is here. The time is now.”

 

**A WOLF**

 

Yarkaz was impatient. “Douse him with water and be done with this, Andal,” he threatened in a growl. But Jon was not so quick to dispose of the Cat. “Time is not a luxury,” cautioned Ser Barristan, but as far as Jon was concerned, time was one thing in abundance they all had when compared to Bloodbeard. “The Conciliator of Blades would have his due, and he would prefer it sooner rather than later,” lectured the Titan, but if the Ghiscari god would have Bloodbeard’s life regardless, then he could wait a while longer.

On the brutal road to Astapor, Jon’s hands were tied to the back of a horse. Oftentimes, Bloodbeard would turn his gaze to sneer at him. They had tied the sellsword to one of the pillars, his hands twisted in a knot around the curves. Jon supposed he looked like a pig, spinning on a spit over a fire. A bruise, colored an ugly brown, had taken up half his face. His eye was swollen, and tears slithered down his cheek.

Jon wondered how much longer the man could rest. _I may need to take up Yarkaz’s proposition._ But then Bloodbeard twitched, and a low growl escaped him. A thick string of spittle dripped from his swollen lips. Realization crept into the one good eye that was afforded him. Half a question escaped him before he let out a groan. “Hello, Bloodbeard.”

A gurgle escaped his throat, and Jon knew then that _Bloodbeard_ knew what had happened. He groaned as his arms struggled against his bonds, fruitless. “What is this?”

 _A stupid question if there ever was one._ “You know what this is.”

“Kill me!” Jon closed his eyes as he felt spittle splatter across his face. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? Finish what you started.”

 _Soon_ , he promised. “I want something from you.” Jon tapped the pommel of the wolf-marked sword. He thought he would have forgotten what it felt like…but as soon as he took the blade from Bloodbeard’s limp fingers, all familiarity rushed back to him. It was home: the walls of Winterfell, the grass that rolled over the hills, the smell of the godswood, Arya’s smile and the small warmth in Father’s eyes. But there was another piece that Bloodbeard had stolen from Jon, and he would have it back.

Bloodbeard grunted as Jon laid his fingers on his neck, a pitiful struggle against Jon’s touch. _Does he think I will choke the life out of him?_ No fear on that count; that would be too quick a death for the likes of him. Jon felt beneath the cut of his sweat stained shirt, searching for the chain. He patted the pockets, reached for the leggings. Jon circled around the pillar and examined the man’s fingers.

It was wrapped snugly around Bloodbeard’s left pointer finger. He let out a sharp gasp as Jon twisted the ring free. The silver dragon must have bitten into Bloodbeard’s flesh as Jon retrieved it; the ring had a dab of blood on the dragon’s maw, and there was a trickle that dripped down the sellsword’s fingers.

Jon twirled the ring between his finger and thumb. It was Daenerys’ first gift to him, a favor, a vow that he would return to her. He was unworthy of her love then, but she granted it to him regardless. _Was I yours the moment I wobbled down those steps?_

He fitted the ring onto his finger. It was a snug fit. “I have what was taken from me,” Jon said as he secured the ring. “But I will have what is owed.” He turned towards Yarkaz and pulled out the dagger that was sheathed in his belt. “Yarkaz, I would have your opinion.”

The Titan arched his brow. “On what?”

“This knife.” Jon offered it handle first. “Will it will cut through flesh easily enough?”

Yarkaz felt the knife in his hand, ran the edge against his thumb. “It would.”

Jon took the knife from Yarkaz. “Ser Barristan. In Westeros, what is the punishment for high treason?”

“Death,” he answered. “But to strike against any member of the royal family means the hand must be cut off.”

Bloodbeard struggled against his bonds. _Not yet._ “But he did not strike against Daenerys or our son. He spoke a command.” Bloodbeard let out a shudder. There was fear in his eyes. _You understand._ “My son lives.” Jon faced the sellsword. “Daenerys lives. I will hold them both by the time this day is done. I won’t kill you. But it is as Ser Barristan said. To strike against royalty means to lose your hand. But you didn’t strike against them. You spoke and wished death on Daenerys.”

He would have yelled, but Horeah was on him. His fingers pried into the man’s mouth and opened it wide. The man would not go quietly, not even for a moment, not even when all knew there was no hope for him, not even a fool’s chance. The man choked when his jaw was forced open.

It was wide enough for a hand.

The tongue was leathery and wet, but Jon had a good enough grip to keep it still. Jon felt Bloodbeard’s teeth scrape against his wrist, but it didn’t matter. He heard Ser Barristan advise in a low voice to look away, but his sister refused. “I will watch, Ser,” she said softly, “I will not turn away.” Jon looked into Bloodbeard’s eyes. _The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword. He must look him in the eyes._ Bloodbeard’s were full of fear.

And when Jon made the first cut, they were full of pain.

Thin streams of blood coursed over Jon’s wrists and onto the polished stone floor. Bloodbeard screamed and fought against it all. He never stopped fighting, and Jon never stopped cutting. He didn’t stop until he felt the last tendon snap beneath the weight of the blade. A river of blood coursed over Bloodbeard’s lips, and his namesake took on a crimson color.

Jon felt the bloody worm in his hand. He tossed it onto the floor. It made a wet, sloppy sound. Jon’s hands were red and dripping. “He stole something from all of you. Your lives are in danger because of him.” Jon approached a boy that must have been only a few years older than Bran. His head was shaved, but Jon could see the dark bristles of hair. “Did he take something from you?”

The boy looked at Jon for a moment, and then nodded. “My friend Aelvor. He was murdered. He begged. They wouldn’t listen.”

Jon shoved the knife into his chest. “Pass your judgement. Take your pound of flesh. But remember…” and he placed a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Bloodbeard owes a debt to everyone in this house.”

For a moment, Jon thought the boy would quiver, that he would not have the strength to do what had to be done. But he stared at the knife, and his soft fingers tightened around the hilt. He took one hesitant step, then a few more confident ones. Bloodbeard let out a gurgling scream as his cheek was carved.

The circle grew tighter around Bloodbeard. Jon cut through the Hrasher slaves and approached Yarkaz. “You said you wanted words.”

“I did. I still do.”

“Then let’s have them. Away from here, I think.” Jon looked down at his hands. The dragon ring was all red. “Someplace with a bath.”

“I know of a place,” spoke the Titan. He looked towards Sansa. “Will you sister be coming?”

Sans turned to face them. “I will,” she said in a hollow voice. Her blue eyes were stern, Jon saw. Whatever innocence his sister had possessed, Joffrey snuffed out with the murder of their father. “As will Ser Barristan.”

It did not take long for them to reach the baths. The waters streamed down from a bowl, held high by naked men and women carved from marble. Jon bent down on the polished stone floor and dipped his hands into the pool. The blood seeped into the water, and the red cloud drifted. “Master Terzac should have returned by now,” Yarkaz said.

Jon reached for a towel that was offered by a marble hand. “What makes you so certain?” he asked, as he dried his hands. The white towel took on a red color.

“Operas do not go on for so long.” The Titan was confident. “And from what little I know of ‘ _The Valiance of Grazdan_ ’, it is not the longest of performances.”

“Could there not be a…celebration afterwards?” Jon suggested. “Some reason to delay Terzac?”

Ser Barristan was doubtful. “Would there be a party after an…opera?”

“We would feast when a singer would come to Winterfell,” Sansa offered.

“I do not think that is the same as an opera,” Jon said. His sister frowned. “What does this mean then? What is keeping Terzac vo Hrasher?”

“Something happened,” Yarkaz said. There was a flicker of fear in his eyes. “All of our lives are in danger now.”

Ser Barristan furrowed his brows. “How so?” he asked. “You did not murder anyone save for the Company of the Cat.”

“A master is dead,” said Yarkaz. “And the only witnesses to that are slaves. Even bloodsworne bow beneath the whip of the harpy…and adhere to their judgement. If Master Terzac has…” He took a deep breath. “If something has happened to him, then our lives are forfeit. Never mind the truth. The Good Masters will see our lives ended, and the house of Hrasher pulled down to the foundations.”

 _They would love that. They killed Iorwen because Alezek vo Hrasher reached too high._ Who was the one that smiled? The name did not come to him, but Jon would never forget his face. His lips like thin worms, and the memory of his narrowed and patient expression put a fresh chill in Jon’s spine. _Wasn’t he the one that permitted Dany entry into the city?_ Jon could feel the war that was coming – in his bones, he knew it – but he didn’t know with whom.

“Can you escape?” Sansa asks. “Is there a way out of the city for you?”

Yarkaz let out a grunt. “Escape? To where? Tell me Andal, where we would go? Astapor is a labyrinth. And even if we escaped the walls of the city – an impossible task – we’d have nowhere to go. Leagues of desert between here and the closest cities, and Yunkai and Meereen will be no more hospitable to us than Astapor. Bloodbeard signed our deathss.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and Jon could feel the hesitation in his voice. “Our only hope would have been Master Terzac. And—”

Jon rose to his feet. “No. Daenerys Targaryen does not intend to leave Astapor as it is. She will turn the Unsullied on the masters. “

“Impossible,” said Yarkaz. “That folly will be the death of her. None can stand against the masters.”

“Not even ten thousand Unsullied spears?” For once, the Titan was without an answer. How long had he lived under the coils of the Harpy, that he had forgotten that the masters of Astapor were flesh and blood and so very mortal?

If Yarkaz meant to speak, the sound of a dozen different sets of feet rushing on the ground silenced him. Ser Barristan turned toward the hall. “What is that?” Jon and Sansa shared a curious glance before they followed. “You!” the knight shouted to a girl with dark hair and even darker skin. “What is happening?”

“Fire!” she said. “A massive pillar of smoke!” She was gone, her feet taking her away from them and toward whatever it was she just spoke of. Jon did not hesitate, and insisted that they follow.

Jon could see it before he reached the balcony, but standing in the outside air confirmed it. A massive column of smoke rose high above the hills of the city, a dark red flame twirling and roaring above the pyramids and estates. He could hear a sigh, a great release of breath, come from Yarkaz. He knew, and he was right.

“What could that be?” Sansa asked Jon.

He was about to answer, but then he heard more steps coming up behind them. They were rushed, the man was red in his cheeks, and his breaths came sharp and flustered. “Sails! Hundreds of them. Big warships. Galleys. They are Braavosi ships!”

“The Conciliator embolden us,” Yarkaz prayed. “But to what end?”

“The end of the masters,” Jon decided. “A way out. Gather all the slaves. We need to make plans.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you are interested in being a beta - and I mean an actual beta that will critique and comment and criticize in equal measure - then send me an email at doublehex 168 at gmail dot com.
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr - doublehex DOT tumblr DOT com.


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